


Sea Change

by Summerlin



Series: Redemption Arc [4]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - A Little Less Sixteen Candles (Music Video), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, I'm Going to Hell, I'm Sorry, I'm absolutely implying off-screen intimacy, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Intimate and Platonic Brencer exists here, Los Angeles I love you, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Multi, Off-screen Relationship(s), Possession, Vampires, does this even count as demonic possession?, i'm just saying that it's okay to not be okay and you can totally own that okayness, i'm mostly writing this for myself, no one is safe, who the fuck knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2020-07-31 13:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20115688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Summerlin/pseuds/Summerlin
Summary: That was the point all along, wasn’t it? To take what you loved most. Now we're even.or(Pete and Co. are on the hunt for a rogue Brendon after word spreads that William Beckett's heir has come home to reclaim his territory. There are no more rules. Nothing is safe.)





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> For Jess

_Alaska _

_He likes routine and companionship. And more than anything, Pete wants so badly to ignore the conversations Brendon has with himself, how he’ll argue at the silence, hissing and snarling in the dark. _

_Brendon'__s lost in thought __and picking at the batches of red wildflowers that surround him for miles. __He sits, still and __stoic and watching the northern lights dance over the many dips and valleys to the shores of the Sitka Sound. __He’s noticed, how __Pete has been sneaking off for a month, the days when it isn’t lethal to step outside, but Brendon tries not to overthink it__. The emptiness sits as a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach__, working an ever-t__ightening grip in his chest__, and he forces himself to focus on the quiet, to concentrate on the rustling shrubs and the __soft dance of the __breeze as it slides through the grasses__. __He lists back and crushes the twigs and blossoms beneath him when his shoulders hit the ground. __He sighs in the solitude, green and yellow light dancing across his skin, discarding his coat for a makeshift pillow__. His fingers busy with the buds that have fallen around his forehead and spares a brief glance at Pete trudging up the hill __in silence__. He won’t say it out loud because he doesn’t need to: he’s lost without Pete. _

_ His hair, swept up from his face, is the first thing Brendon sees, cracking open an eye. Pete is wrapped in the heaviest coat he owns, buttoned to the neck, the tufts of fur from his forgotten hood creating a half-halo around his head. There’s a blush to his cheeks, Brendon noticed. _

_ “You should stay away from her, whoever she is.” Brendon says flatly_ _. _ _Pete glances up at the lights, _ _swallowing thickly_ _. With Brendon _ _rarely speaking these days,_ _ his emotions are a gamble for Pete to read__._

_ “She’s no __one__. It doesn’t matter.” _

_ Brendon pushes himself up to stand, ignoring the buds and twigs sticking to his skin. He’s pale, outlined in the dark__. He __stretches__, __watching __Pete with pity, chased with a hint of stern disappointment. “It does__. T__o you, it does. You reek of her, Pete, and I’m telling you now, you should stay away from her. You don’t know what you’re walking into.” _

_ “As if you would know any better, Brendon.” Pete scoffs. If he still had a heartbeat, he's sure it'd be racing. _

_ Brendon lunges at Pete without warning, sending them tumbling into a patch of snow and brush, snarling. He shifts his weight against Pete, keeping him pinned as he straddles his hips and bracing his arms with his knees. Brendon grips his throat and snarls. "Would you want this life for her? Do you love her enough to to pull her into this and suffer like we did? We're barely hanging on you're following some local girl, lying to her and lying to yourself that this is some fucking fling! I smell her all over you, Peter, so don't you start lying to me too!" Brendon's shoulders tremble with rage, because how dare he?_

_ Pete tries to __stay composed__, to keep the fear contained when Brendon's eyes flash with an iridescent haze. __His lips form a tight line and doesn't say _ You couldn’t think for yourself. You were half-possessed. _He doesn't. _

_ “S__top it.” he orders, voice unwavering. Brendon didn’t seem to register it. “Bren, stop it and let go of me.” _

_ Pete wanted to ignore the narrow trail of blood trickling from Brendon’s ear and down his neck, he really did__. _ _Something flickers _ _in Brendon’s _ _eyes_,_ and he recoils from Pete like he’d been burned, face contorted in shame and scrambling away in the snow. “Fuck.” Brendon hissed. Pete follows him up and takes a cautious step toward him, hands up in surrender. Brendon would lose control. The rare bursts of anger ate away at their bond each time the last remnants of Beckett triggered him, forcing Pete to restrain him. It was a parasite, and Pete wouldn't hesitate to carry that burden for him if given the chance. _

_ There's a moment of doubt before he's __touching Brendon, who’s turned away, eyes cast down at the bobbing lights of crab boats moored in the Sound__. He’d lose control, but never on Pete, never on his brother. Brendon __folds his arms protectively, shivering with adrenaline__. Pete keeps his eyes on the sharp planes of Brendon’s back, tracing the ridges of his spine as he balls up a handful of snow. He’s careful to turn__ Brendon around, to touch him too soon as Brendon tries to pull himself together__. Pete circles t__o face him, __locking eyes before Brendon’s gaze falters, and wipes the thin line of blood with the snowball. Brendon doesn’t flinch at the chill of it__, averting his eyes with shame__. __Pet__e might become distant, he fears, might leave him and __drive him to insanity _ _ . _

_ “Promise me you’ll end it.” Brendon whimpers as Pete finishes silently. Once he’s done, Brendon grabs his coat and shrugs it back on, __heading back to the trail __in the tree line, perhaps feed on the way. “If you love her as much as you think you do, you wouldn't want this for her. Please spare her.” _

___

_Pete had vaguely registered the anxious raps of Brendon's fingernails__ against the front door to their cabin __as the sun was finally setting, its last sliver of light fading away with a whisper. Brendon had left the moment it was safe after a month of deep sleep__. _ Pete could use 10 more minutes, _Brendon told himself. There were plenty of options in the upper 40. Sitka became a haven, a welcomed __balance and a chance to slow down since Chicago. Pete still hasn’t adjusted to waking up to dozens of unanswered emails and texts from the periodic months they’ve slept. _

_ The cabin is quiet as he stretches, stepping out of the closet in a fresh set of clothes from the suitcases and pulls back the curtain at the kitchen window, peeking out at the dim glow of dusk. The itch in the back of Pete’s brain becomes prominent again. Faint but still there. _

Brendon is calling to him. 

_ In the summer, the wildflowers crunch a bit softer __under his feet __than the winter snows _ _ . The walk into town is scenic, but often he’d step off to the shoulder of the road to let a truck or two to pass. There were none on this trip, and the silence was smothering. He pauses, listening keenly for the eagles and loons, a stray caribou in the brush. The itch was gone now and Pete p__icked up his pace, cutting into the woods. The bell of the distant buoy and orange glow of the harbor lights peeking through the trees beckoned him closer, and as Pete drew closer, the usual drone of evening activity was now silent. _

_ The stench soon followed, hitting him square in the chest. _

_ It wasn’t a moment before his eyes fixed on the first body, leaning against the window of the harbormaster’s office, window smeared with stale blood. Pete crouched, covering his nose with his arm as he approached to investigate, alert. The scene was violent: cork board torn from the walls, glasses and frames shattered among the smashed remains of furniture on the floor. The bruised body of the harbormaster stared vacantly at the doorway, shirt and throat torn. __Pete grimaced, turning back before the __putrefying __stench of stale gore made him gag, swallowing thickly as he stalked up the dock to the square. _

_ A pair of legs floats under the dock. _

_ A bloodied boot in the gutter. _

_ The street opens to the abandoned square, but the stench is unmistakable. __Trails of crimson, smeared hand prints of the struggle in the windows of the bed and breakfast, the door to the tribal museum ripped from its hinges. Pete’s stomach turned in horror. Please let him be wrong. _

_ The front door of the general store is left ajar, but the hand laying limp in the threshold is inviting, beckoning him closer as the scent grows potent. Pete presses against the wall, craning his neck to peek into the aisles __before settling on her face. It’s the face he’s lost count of how many times he’s kissed __and the one that kissed him back twice as often. The blood from the long gash in Meagan’s throat has matted her hair against her cheeks, framing the distant, almost peaceful stare at his boots. Pete gazes over her mournfully, packing and locking away any remaining desire to start that journey with her and finally let himself live. He gently closes her eyes, giving her that kindness she had stolen in her last moments. _

_ He should’ve listened. He should’ve known better, should not have let that velvet smile trap him and __hold him hostage, should not have liked it as much as he did. He couldn’t love this empty husk. It couldn’t love him back. _

_ He stands again as the scent grows stronger, burning at the corners of his eyes and setting fire to his throat. _

_It’s here. _

If there is a god, let it be a crazed caribou. _ He stalks past the counter. _

Let it be a pack of rabid wolves._ He steps over the body of tourist, soaked in blood, tossed against the display of bait and tackle. _

Let it be a rogue bear. 

_ Pete freezes, swallowing the lump in his throat. Brendon has the cashier pinned against the wall of coolers__, glass cracked from the initial impact as he feeds wantonly. The boy’s eyes roll back, mouth agape in agony. He had a full ride scholarship, Pete remembers, and family in Juneau. Brendon drops him with a thud, rolling his neck with a series of satisfied pops and lets out a sigh of ecstasy. Pete’s limbs are taut, ready to spring. _

_ “What have you done?” _

_ Brendon’s head tilts before he turns with a grin__, holding Pete’s gaze with clouded, vacant eyes. His body follows suit, stalking through the blood and broken glass with bare feet. _

_ “You’re not stupid, Peter” _

_ Pete takes a wary step back, fists clenched. “All of them…” _

_ Brendon licks his lips, futile as the blood drips in sticky rivulets from his chin. “The tourists…the tribe…the children…” His voice doesn’t falter with another beneath it__, scratching under his warm falsetto. “And the next town…and the next…and the next…” _

_ Pete lunges in a blur of rage, fingers poised for Brendon’s throat before he’s thrown through the shop window, tumbling onto the asphalt under a shower of glass and timber. Brendon sneers, stepping over the rail onto the street. _

_ “I__t’ll be like old times, Peter.” __Brendon is quick __to clench a fistful of Pete’s hair before he can recover, driving his face against the bricks and thrown into the square. Pete wipes the blood from the fresh cut under his eye, cracking his jaw as it resets. “Come on, don’t you want to play?” _

_ Brendon grins as shadows from the traffic light bounce off of his cheeks, keeping his slow pace. _No need to rush. Peter isn’t going anywhere. 

_ Pete scrambles to his feet, making another attempt to cat__ch him off guard__, to stop whatever this was. It’s not Brendon. It’s not Brendon. It’s not. _

He’s gone. 

_ Pete swipes at his throat, d__riving his shoulder square into Brendon’s chest to tackle him against the pavement, but Brendon is quick to dodge, grabbing a fistful of Pete’s shirt before throwing him toward the harbor docks. Rage courses through Pete and his vision swims. _

_ Meagan knew and she was willing, falling into Pete’s arms with every promise, every assurance that it would all be worth it, that eternity would be bearable together. Snuffed out like a light. Now only a memory. Only Brendon remained. This shell of him. _

_ Pete roars, boots driving into the __pavement __to throw his weight against Brendon legs and sends them sprawling onto the wood of the docks__, breaking off the wind sock and its pole__. His fingers are eager around Brendon’s throat, trembling and pressing as he straddles Brendon’s hips to pin him. His lips __quiver __with a broken sob. _

_ Pete breaks. “You took everything from me!” _

_ It cackles. That sick fucking laugh, grinning through the blood staining Brendon's lips _ _ . _

_ “Brendon, Patrick, Meagan…all because of you!” His grip tightens, and the pressure finally registers in Brendon’s eyes. The panic and pain flashes briefly despite the smile. _

_ “That was the point all along…wasn’t it?," it taunts. "To take what you loved most…now we’re even…” _

_ Pete squeezes his eyes shut, forcing back a scream as that rage threatens to boil over. Meagan’s face flashes behind his eyelids. If he can concentrate, he can still smell the tropical scent of her conditioner. He can hear __the soft falsetto of Brendon’s laugh, see the warm and kind brown of his eyes. Pete was never meant to have nice things. _

_ “You’ve never loved anything. You’re incapable of love.” He looks down at Brendon with a sour mix of pity and anguish as it claws at Pete’s arms, ripping through to the muscle. Pete draws in a shaky breath, wincing as this thing wearing Brendon's face rips at his arms through his screams and hisses, and reaches for the wind sock pole. Brendon’s eyes widen in horror, squirming under Pete’s weight. “You’ve taken my lover, my friends…and my brother. He's gone, and I’m sick of your lies.” _

_ He rocks back up before thrusting the pole into Brendon’s chest, watching it pierce through the center of his sternum and the blood pool in a gruesome stain on his shirt. Brendon’s face is frozen in a scream, his eyes pleading, but Pete refuses to look at him__. “Brendon deserved better. They all deserved better."__ Brendon releases a strangled whine from the back of his throat. _It’s fitting_, Pete thinks, _they must’ve figured it out centuries ago that a cleansing by fire was the most merciful method of exorcism. 

_ Brendon will be free. Once the sun rises, he’ll be free. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to clarify that I'll be throwing around the "brother" term a lot. I'm not implying that they're biological brothers, more like there is a deep relationship cemented by weathering through hardships together. 
> 
> I'm a huge fan of the anecdote "The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb."


	2. Two

Chicago

Joe had looked forward to this overnight restoration all week. He prided himself on planning every detail, counting the minutes to the moment his receptionist went home for the weekend, and he was left in solitude with shell of a ’69 Pontiac GTO in need of a little love. The Keurig dispensed a cup of San Francisco Fog Chaser, required tools pulled from the chest and spread in order of relevance on a clean towel, and a playlist of his choosing. He breathed a sigh of relief. Even if it were or just a few hours, he was master of his domain. 

Taking that first sip from his mug, Joe bobbed his head to that Deep Purple song from childhood, savoring the flavor of the roast. He turns to grab the stool and sets his mug down on the tool chest, pulling up a seat to the workbench. He grins, humming to the melody and grabs a 3/8 socket wrench, fitting his fingers into the crevice of the engine block. He reaches for another bolt from the bucket beside him, tapping his foot to the beat echoing off of the walls of the warehouse. In the not too distant future, he’ll have this up and running in the pristine condition he remembers before the Punks torched it in the brawl on 93rd. Just the way he had it when— 

“Is this a passion project?” 

Joe flinches and shouts, impulsively reaching for the box cutter hidden in his sock, only to catch his hand in the block to yank himself back against the bench. He seethes through his teeth at the suspicion that he probably ripped off a fingernail. Just another band-aid to add to the others. He glares up at Pete, leaning against the workbench with arms crossed, an amused smirk hanging on his lips. 

“I was going to leave it to you when I die, but I’m thinking I’ll sell it as a final fuck you before I’m put in the ground.” Joe gingerly retrieves his hand from the engine block and inspects it for damage, letting out a sigh at the gash along the side of his ring finger, turning on the stool to find the first aid kit on the wall. “Please, don’t let me make you uncomfortable with all of this blood,” Joe’s tone dripped with sarcasm. 

Pete snorts, settling on the edge of the workbench to inspect Joe’s progress, hands neatly in his jacket pockets. “Already ate.” 

Joe steals a glance as he dabs glue along the gash, eyeing Pete’s relaxed manner. “Spare me the details. Just hope it was worth it.” 

Pete’s smug. “He won’t be beating his children any longer. Absolutely worth it.” He looks up at Joe, eyes warm and crinkling at the edges the way Joe remembers. “You look good. Skipping the haircuts, I see.” 

“The ladies dig it if you actually take care of yourself. Wash regularly, conditioner and beard oil. That’s the secret.” Joe grins, putting the kit away once his finger is wrapped in gauze. “Have you seen Andy yet? Are you even in town for more than a day?” 

Pete scratches at his jaw, turning away from the engine block and nods. “I saw him. Not in person though. It was an online lecture one of his students posted on a university forum or something… He looks good.” He scuffs his boot against the polished concrete, averting his gaze though he knows Joe can see right through him. 

“You didn’t come for a Hi, how the hell are ya.” Joe leans against the body of the Pontiac, careful to keep pressure off of his finger as he folds his arms. Pete shrugs, eyes guarded. 

“…I didn’t. You’ve got feelers out there. You and Andy never really stepped away.” 

Joe lets his head dip, nodding. “You can’t once you see it. Not when your friends were murdered and…one of them is a total fiend.” He studies Pete for a moment, eyes training over the denim jacket on his shoulders, the faint stain of blood on his stretched shirt, the scuffs on his boots, and the disheveled hair swept up from his face. Pete no longer squares his shoulders for a challenge, no longer looks for the fight. The mileage has weathered his rough edges. “What have you heard?” 

Pete perches on the stool now, picking at a rip in his jeans. “It’s what I saw, but the rumors must’ve been going up and down the shore for a while now. I first got wind of it in Austin.” He meets Joe’s gaze now. “I saw him, Joe. Brendon was here in Chicago.” 

Joe pales, shifting on his feet as he swallows thickly. He had a hunch, and he had hoped to god he was wrong. “Police presence increased around the Loop after some investment bankers were found dead in their apartment. Then they found a woman in a penthouse suite on Madison Avenue. She was a therapist or something…just…ripped to shreds.” 

“I saw him on Kingsbury. I didn’t believe it at first until I tailed him a few blocks to a club. The scent was the same.” 

“Pete…you said he was dead. In Alaska…” 

“I said _he was as good as dead_,” Pete snapped. “I don’t know how he survived. He didn’t leave any survivors up there. No one could’ve come along to help him. I should’ve…I should’ve finished the job.” 

Joe begins to approach, only to hesitate and pull pack, sympathy in his eyes. “You couldn’t have known. Like you said, Brendon was gone. It wasn’t him anymore.” 

“He was real, Joe. I tracked down some of Patrick’s old contacts. They confirm it was him. Rumors are to avoid at all costs. And…it wasn’t just him. There was another with him. I was told he’s the same.” 

“So…Brendon turned someone?” 

“That's not Brendon,” Pete hisses. Joe recoils against the car. “Brendon is gone. That thing is not Brendon.” 

Joe swallows the lump in his throat, throwing his hand up defensively. “Then…_it_ turned someone. I can only assume it’s responsible for the murders downtown. Pretty high-profile…” 

Pete shakes his head in defeat. “William always had a flair for the dramatic. Always wanted to send a message.” He scrubs a hand over his mouth, trying to formulate this bitter pill he’ll make Joe swallow. “I…made a deal with those goths out on the south shore.” Joe’s eyes narrow. “I promised them territory.” 

“Territory that you have no stake in, Pete!” 

“You don’t think I know that? The power vacuum William left behind can be seen from Boston! Word was already out that William's heir had come back home to reclaim his territory. But what could be worse than a repeat of Alaska? At least there are some deterrents from turning Chicago into a city of corpses right now.” Pete hesitates, chewing his lip. “I promised them I’d answer the call to fight when they needed…and in exchange, they take him out. Him and his companion.” 

Joe shook his head in disbelief, carding a hand through his hair. “Pete, you stupid motherfucker…” 

Pete frowns, furrowing his brow. “I instructed them to paralyze him and burn the body. It was supposed to be clean!” 

Joe begins to laugh incredulously as the pieces fall together. “You don’t have to keep your stupid promise to those little freaks. My informant told me that tag-along of his ripped them all apart. I think all you managed to do was piss them off, and now they know there’s a hit out on them.” 

Pete is lost in thought, mumbling under his breath. “I saw the stake. I saw him on the ground…” 

Joe pushes up off of the car, heading to the back office to retrieve his phone. “I’m proud that you’re man enough to admit you made a mistake.” 

“I didn’t—” 

“You _fucked up_, man. But your heart was in the right place.” Joe scrolls across the screen, face illuminated by the screen. “I doubt your little plan did any real damage and they’ve healed by now. Probably got the fuck out of Dodge when they found out who put out the hit ‘cause none of you bloodsuckers can keep a secret. You’ll need a couple of veterans to track them.” 

Pete stands in protest, holding his hands up to stop Joe from starting anything reckless. “Andy’s a professor. You’ve got this garage. You both built lives and I won’t risk endangering—" 

What a futile attempt. 

“Oh, shut up. Andy’s bored. _I’m_ fucking bored. We can at least be put to good use while we wait to die.” Joe presses the phone to his ear as the line rings. “Now this companion of his. Describe him.” 


	3. Three

** BREAKING NEWS **

** ARIZONA DAILY STAR- ** ** SEDONA ** ** POLICE ** ** RESPONDED TO AN APPARENT DOUBLE HOMICIDE ON THE NORTH SIDE. RESIDENTS JOSEPH MARTINEZ, 33, AND DAVID MOORE, 36, WERE FOUND BY A NEIGHBOR CHECKING IN AT THE HOME IN THE 800 BLOCK OF EAST NAVAJO ROAD. **

** OFFICERS DETERMINED THAT BOTH MEN SUSTAINED FATAL LACERATIONS TO THE THROAT AND ARMS. THE MEN WERE PRONOUNCED DEAD AT THE SCENE. **

** THE NEIGHBOR TOLD OFFICERS THAT THE DOOR WAS UNHINGED WHEN SHE ARRIVED AROUND 10:30 P.M. AFTER HEARING ** ** A DISTURBANCE ** ** FROM THE RESIDENCE. **

** NO ONE IS IN CUSTODY AS OF TUESDAY AFTERNOON, DEPUTY SHERIFF DUGAN SAID. **

** ANYONE WITH INFORMATION ABOUT THE INCIDENT IS ASKED TO CALL ** ** 55-CRIME, AN ANONYMOUS TIP LINE. **

-

“Guys, we got a live one.” Andy cranes his neck back from the passenger seat, glancing at Pete. He leans closer, hovering over Andy’s shoulder from the back seat to scan the news headline on his laptop. He grimaces as Joe takes the value meal from the window cashier, holding he bag on his lap to find a spot in the sparse parking lot. “There’s a good chance this is them. With the door kicked in like that, it sounds similar to Chicago.”, Andy says. 

“Leaving the bodies behind is just sloppy.”, Joe adds, parking beneath a cotton wood, shutting off the engine and opening the door to stretch. 

Pete pushes the seat up on his way out, smashing Joe against the wheel. He earns a shriek and a few choice words before Joe checks on his large iced tea and Big Mac. Andy closes the laptop and steps out, rolling his neck and shoulders. “I’ll look up the address once he’s done stuffing his face with shit.” Andy sighs. “Investigators should be gone by the time we get there and you can have a look around.” He nods to Pete. “How’s the thirst? Can you make it to Flagstaff?” Joe pauses from a bite of his burger to watch him. 

Pete shrugs, carding a hand through his hair. “It’s manageable. If it gets worse before the next city, I’ll tell you to pull over.” 

“That all depends on where we think they’re going.” Joe says through a mouthful of burger. “It could be just before dawn that we get to Phoenix, or tomorrow night if it’s Salt Lake or Denver.” 

Andy scrolls through his phone against the hood of the car, searching for an address. “If you keep talking with your mouth full, Pete won’t need to eat. If you’re gonna stuff your face, at least stuff it with actual meat.’ 

“What? This is actual meat!”, Joe gasps. “McDonalds is a fine establishment. I think you actually got your PhD in bullshit, Dr. Hurley.” 

“Pete, tell him!” 

He looks between them, tossing a pitiful glance at Joe and scratches at his chin. “I hate to ruin your good time, but there’s barely any beef in there. It mostly smells like flour and a shitload of salt.” He steps back as this only escalates the argument, grinning. He’s missed this familiarity, this human connection. He’d been so far removed from humanity since he returned to the lower 48. He’d even admit it had been slipping away since Patrick. He’d been lacking this kind of interaction to where he felt most of his social skills had completely atrophied, that the animal was starting to win. Pete had been used to sleeping in the trailers of semi-trucks and hitching rides in the back of passenger vans to get by, and that took barely an ounce of convincing whatever lonely trucker or group of teenagers trying to make it as the next big thing to let him crash. He never thought he’d be cut out for the nomadic life. It had begun to settle on him; this comfortable weight on his shoulders through every city he passed through and taking a piece of it with him. But as the days bleed into weeks, in the company of his brothers, he feels the roots taking hold again. 

But their voices drown out, a muffled drone as his vision swims. He grunts, trying to shake it off but he has it now; just a whiff of that scent is enough to set him off, and it’s close, upwind. The scent burns at his eyes now that his pupils are blown, and stumbles back against the car, scrubbing a hand over his face as he hastily reaches around the back seat for anything he can use to impale something. Andy and Joe pause, watching Pete double over against the car. This wasn’t a reaction they’d seen before, and Pete was a live wire. Andy sets his phone down with a tentative, “Pete?” 

He grits his teeth, reaching for one of the steel stakes from his duffel bag. “He’s here…and he’s hurt. There’s blood.” Pete grips the stake in a vice and stumbles back, taking a deep breath to track the scent again. “It’s still fresh.” Joe packs up the rest of his meal in a panic as Pete starts toward the intersection. 

“Pete, wait! You can’t go alone!”, Joe shouts, futile as Pete disappears into the shadow of the street lights with a distant _ Keep up! _ They get the car into gear, peeling out of the parking lot to follow his trail. 

The scent grows stronger, sending Pete reeling as he sprints up the streets to the highway, winding into the red monoliths of the desert. It’s thick and heady, filling his senses with want, something primal that screams _ Brendon _. He’s so close. 

The screams follow, low and guttural. It’s agony, ringing off of the rocks. Pete feels the electricity prickle against the back of his neck, swimming through the scent of blood and he’s so fucking close. Almost…almost… 

The hunters are gathered around him, and a wave of anger floods him, because this should be his fight, _ his fucking fight _, and how dare they? The crackle of the tasers mix and tangle with the screams, almost in sync, but that scream isn’t his. No, this is wrong. This is a trick. 

Pete skids to a stop, and there’s nothing he can do to hold back the hiss he makes at these kids having a go at _ his _ fucking target. They flinch at the sound, ignoring the body writhing on the ground. It looks up at Pete, with those haunting pale eyes he tried to burn from his memory, but they’re softer, pleading at the sight of another of their kind. He’s bloodied, the remnants of a buck shot on his shoulder having torn his shirt wide open. It’s still fighting to heal with an angry, irritated splotch on his skin. His nails dig into the pavement as another wave of electricity courses through the prongs hooked into his skin. He’s desperate. 

“Mine.”, Pete snarls, taking a daring step toward the group. He faintly hears the buzz of his phone in his pocket. They stand defiantly; these punk kids with their tasers and camo bandanas. They’re interfering with answers and he snarls again, flashing his set of doubles before they finally flinch. But the shorter of the five, defiant and headstrong, pulls out a flask from his jacket, a small, glass antique. Pete can smell the lethal fumes from the soaked rag locked under the cap. He takes another step in warning, stealing a glance at their prisoner convulsing on the ground. He hears the lighter’s flint catch and ignite, lighting the rag, and for a moment, he sees uncertainty flicker behind the kid’s eyes. It dies the moment he lobs the bottle at Pete, and sets him off, eyes narrowing in rage. He takes off, dropping the stake and throwing himself into the group, already swinging and dodging their parries. They’re oblivious, and once their fingers leave the triggers of the tasers, the currents cease, and their prisoner is released in the scuffle. He rips the prongs free, scrambling upright to escape the chaos. 

Pete is blind with rage, breaking and dislocating, plowing through their ranks to find the one that threw that fucking bottle of holy water in the first place, gripping the scarf around his neck, letting the roar rip through his throat. The kid has now looked death in the face, shaking and pale with fear as Pete crouches over him. He grips the hunter’s neck and his vision is tunneled with rage. Perhaps luck was on his side in that he didn’t have to wait until another city for his next meal. 

“Pete, stop!” 

He freezes at Joe’s stern command, eyes pitless and seething with rage. His grip anchors the kid to the pavement as his head snaps in Joe’s direction, hissing through his teeth. He remembers Joe, and Andy’s face slowly comes into focus, the shock at the devastation palpable. Pete had plowed through them like bowling pins, leaving them scattered on the road. 

“Let him go.” Andy’s voice is stern but a soothing balm to Pete’s burning fury. He blinks, setting his jaw, and leans back off of the kid. He scrambles away from Pete, taking off up the road after dragging one of his companions that didn’t have a broken ankle or a shattered kneecap. 

Pete scrubs a hand over his mouth, shoulders going slack as he stares at the bloody prongs on the asphalt. The sharp scent of the electricity still lingers, tangling into an intoxicating ribbon that mocks him, twisting into the hills of cottonwoods. He wants to chase it. His limbs are screaming. 

“It wasn’t him.”, he pants. “It was the other. The one he turned.” 

Joe is already reaching for the car keys. “So they are here. They can’t be far.” 

“He’s still wounded, and he saw me.” The scent is diluted now, and Pete begins to relax, resting on his heels. “He won’t lead me to him. You’d die before you sell out your maker.” 

“You did,” Joe scoffs. 

Pete shakes his head. “Not this one. When he looked at me...fuck, his eyes. They were Brendon’s when he... But then they weren’t. There’s no telling what he will do. What they will do. He won’t be stupid enough to lead us back to him. We know what they’re capable of. And if he’s wounded, he’ll need to feed. Fuck, _ I _need to feed.” Andy grips his arm to carefully help him up. 

“They won’t be moving tonight with the sunrise so soon. We’ll stake out the highway,” Andy states. “If you can hold it together for another hour, you can eat.” 


	4. Four

LA

It’s the scent that draws him in first, just a tease that guides him down the narrow alleys off of Broadway. There’s an urgency in Pete’s chest, squeezing his heart in a vice at the hope that after months of near misses and cold trails, it could be the end. Finally, the end. The scent is fresh and unmistakable, leading Pete on to round the corner past the line into the theater, past the taco truck handing out another paper boat of street carnitas and cilantro rice. 

This city was faster than Chicago. Definitely brighter. 

The trail stops at the loading dock of the Ace, weaving into the bowels of the hotel. For a moment, Pete was hesitant. If this was what he wanted, it would be public. Pete was tired; tired of chasing, tired of tracking. It needed to end. The stake in his jacket felt heavy now, but as he slid past the attendants and busboys in the kitchens, he promised to make good use of it soon. He only needed an opening. Taking the service elevator to the roof, the scent became suffocating and his vision swam. He had to be here. There was no way down without making a scene. 

There was no control to where his feet took him, only the heady trail that made his throat burn, made the itch behind his eyes prickle once again. The elevator doors opened to a rooftop bar, bustling with bodies. The collective beats of their hearts drowned out the thrum of house music drifting from the speakers. It was only the scent and the beast at the end. The glow of the city lights cast shadows against the shelves of liquor, lanterns from the cypress planters hung heavy from the branches, and as Pete scanned the faces of the patrons, the itch behind his eyes became a pull. 

The man perched on the corner lounger held his gaze, indecipherable behind the black, glossy lenses of the wayfarers he wore. He sipped nonchalantly from his tumbler, savoring the flavor. Pete approached; shoulders squared defensively; brows furrowed in confusion. The scent flowed from him in waves, pooling between them. 

“It’s…It’s you.” Pete swallows thickly. The stake is practically burning a hole in his jacket pocket. 

“You look disappointed,” he muses, balancing the glass between the tips of his fingers. “Perhaps this is the wrong time to thank you for Sedona. Timing was never my strong suit.” 

Pete swallows thickly, feeling that rock settle low in his stomach. “Why would you thank me?” 

The man picks at the thread of his slacks before taking another sip. “My mother raised me to always express gratitude, even toward a guy that followed us to Los Angeles to kill us.” 

_ Us. There it is. _

He downs the rest of the glass, setting it down on the end table and slides his hands into the pockets of his wool blazer. Pete glances at the waitress, the couple at the end of the terrace, taking in the view. 

“Pete, please.” He gestures to the ottoman across from him. “I don’t want to fight, and I don’t think any of them would want to watch either. Have a seat, please.” Pete throws a glance back at the bartender before carefully taking a seat, perching on the edge. His fingers dig into the stitched leather. 

“You know my name.” 

“It’s not hard to miss before you’re literally stabbed in the back.” His lips twitch, watching Pete behind the glasses; aloof and unreadable. “But Brendon has told me about you. At least…as much as he wants me to know about you.” 

“Keeping you on a short leash, is he?” Pete spits. 

There’s a brief flash of teeth, too sharp, too conspicuous, and Pete is alert. He hit a nerve. 

Spencer's lips are suddenly a terse line, and Pete can feel him glaring daggers. “_Equals_. He doesn’t own me. I don’t own him.” 

“But you go where he goes. You follow him.” 

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his beard. “He’s my maker. I have no one else. And no one quite understands me as well as he does, for that matter. We do our best to support each other.” He leans closer now, breaking the barrier between them. Pete scrutinizes him, repulsed at his indifference. “I’m not what you’ve heard, Pete. Could you at least give me the courtesy of explaining myself before you take me out?” 

He sits back then, taking off his glasses and Pete shivers. He rubs at his eye before glancing up at Pete, holding his gaze with the iridescent, cloudy stare. 

“The sunglasses were Brendon’s idea. This condition draws unwanted attention, and it’s a little off-putting when you’re trying to make new friends.” He folds his arms on his knee once he slides the sunglasses back on. “But no one looks at you twice when you’re in LA. I’m Spencer.” Though his tone is inviting, he doesn’t extend his hand to shake. 

“Where is he?” 

Spencer smirks, amused. “Safe from you, and he expects me back home before dawn. He knows how to find me if I don’t turn up.” 

Pete scoffs. “What makes you think I won’t follow you back? What’s to stop me from dragging you out of here and make you show me anyway?” 

Spencer rests his chin on his palm, tilting his head. “I haven’t tried to run yet. I bet you’re curious.” 

Pete is on edge, nails ripping into the leather of the ottoman. 

_ How can he just sit there? _

_ You’re not stupid. Make him take you to him. _

Pete glares at him from under his lashes, willing for Spencer to burst into flame. It would make Pete’s decade to watch this cocky prick burn. The silence is broken when Spencer lets out a sigh and signals for the waitress, sitting up as she approaches. Her pulse beats heavy in Pete’s ears, gentle and inviting, but she only has eyes for Spencer as he flashes her a bright smile. Her pen is poised on the note pad and she can’t help but smile back, frozen as he dips his sunglasses on his nose to lock eyes with her. Milky eyes bore into her own, and Spencer’s voice could’ve been the Devil’s all along. “Linda, there you are. Would you mind pouring us both a glass of that ’37 Macallan that you keep under the bar? No need for a bill tonight.” She nods vacantly to Pete’s disgust, still wearing that wide grin before turning back to the bar. Spencer sits back and pushes the sunglasses back up his nose. “I found that alcohol has a nice placebo effect to offset the thirst for a while. And it passes the time. At least have a drink with me.” 

“Is this how you get by? Controlling them?” Pete hisses. 

Spencer shrugs, tilting his head toward the city. “You’ve got no room to patronize me with getting by. My methods are less crude than that shit you and Brendon used to drink straight out of a blender.” He takes a deep breath, letting out a heavy sigh. “It doesn’t hurt them, if that’s what you’re implying. Tomorrow, no one will ask and I was never here.” Pete’s seen that stare before. He’s seen the way the girls danced around Brendon at his pleasure before going in for the kill. “But I don’t make it hurt when the time comes. If it were me, I wouldn’t want it to hurt.” 

“Brendon never told you, did he? How he liked to kill them like that? He always made sure it hurt.” 

“He’s told me everything and taught me to control it. Isn’t that what a maker does? Like a parent, they guide you and teach you in hopes that you don’t make the same mistakes they did.” 

“Mistakes. How Chicago and New York were mistakes. How Alaska was a mistake. Were you one of those?” Pete doesn’t look up as the waitress delivers the clean tumblers of scotch, gritting his teeth as that itch begins to stab behind his eyes. 

“Is there anything else I can get you, Mr. Smith?” she asks, tone pleading. She’s starved for him. 

“No, thank you, Linda. I’ll return this weekend, if you’re working.” Spencer’s lips are pressed in a tight line, swallowing the growl rumbling in his throat. He reaches for the tumbler, staring Pete down. “Of course, we regret New York and Chicago. We’ve learned from those mistakes. But I was not a mistake. I was an accident. There is a difference.” He sips keenly, licking his lips. 

Pete shifts on his seat. “Is that what he tells you?” 

“It’s what I’ve come to terms with on my own. When I first met Brendon, there was a connection that I’m sure you also felt when you first met. I came to love him, and I knew that one day he’d turn me. The journey just…wasn’t how I thought it would be. He wasn’t himself and…I became an accident.” Pete watches his shoulders relax as his head drops, studying the glass in his hand. “I still love him, Pete. Despite what he did and what he gave me, I still love him.” Spencer tosses back the scotch and grimaces, jaw set. “You’ve hunted us and come all this way. At least give me a chance to make you understand.” 

“You still intend to take me to him?” 

Spencer reaches for the other glass, holding it under his nose to breathe it in. “With a few assurances, yes, I’ll take you to him. He’s wished to see you, despite me strongly advising against it.” Pete sits up, watching Spencer toss back the second scotch in a single gulp, carding a hand through his hair. He licks his teeth in a way Pete knows all too well, remembering the ache in the pit of his stomach and the fire scorching his throat. He sees that want on Spencer’s lips. “So, do you plan on staking me in the back too or do you want to negotiate?” 

Los Feliz 

Distant sirens were a comforting sound, the sort of white noise that would lull Spencer to sleep when he could barely afford rent. From this distance in the hills, in the historic and safe neighborhood of Los Feliz, it felt a lifetime away. There weren’t bars on the windows or possible building code violations. The landscaping was manicured and designed for the high desert climate, framing the sports cars and Land Rovers specifically designed to hold shopping bags rather than passengers. 

A dog barked and whined as he passed, climbing the steep and winding streets off of Commonwealth. He ran a hand along the leaves of a security hedge, flanking the gates and cameras of the reclusive and expensive villas in the hills. He was only passing by, and as long as he looked the part, acted as if he belonged, no one would think twice. He didn’t mind that only one of the neighbors bothered to introduce themselves when they’d arrived late into the night three weeks ago; parched lips and effortlessly carrying more bags than anyone their size could lift in one trip from the Uber. Mrs. Luella Abernathy was a slight woman with a limp in her step and kind, blue eyes behind coke bottle glasses. Her loneliness was unmistakable in her voice. She was excited that the Bairstows had rented their property to two clean-looking boys off of that app that she couldn’t recall at the time, that some chores had been difficult to keep up with after Irving had passed, and if they wouldn’t mind coming over to give her a hand if she gave them a ring during their stay. She hadn’t been too put off that they had refused a handshake, but more relieved that when they were home, they’d be more than happy to help despite the flattering and unrequited flirting. As for the other neighbors, Spencer could care less. It wouldn’t be much of a tragedy that one night they’d happen to run into him in the city when he felt particularly peckish. 

He could live with the guise that they were just another couple working themselves to death with no time for pleasantries. They’d blend in with everyone else. 

Spencer has the gate code on a slip of paper in his jacket pocket for appearances as he rounds Nottingham Place. He glances over his shoulder to check that the glow from the houses when he left are now dark before he leaps over the gate, landing on the balls of his feet with a soft patter in the driveway. There’s music drifting from within the house, an orange glow from the porch lights casting soft shadows from the greenery onto the flat, stucco walls. Would it really be that noticeable if the Bairstows never returned from their trip to Cancun? Spencer could make it work. The Airbnb fees would just fizzle out and they could take over the property taxes and utilities. It could absolutely work. 

Spencer tries to identify the artist playing out of the stereo as he steps through the front threshold, taking off his sunglasses and leaving them in the bowl by the door. There’s a hint of a Wurlitzer, this soft, mono drone that makes Spencer want. It’s too telling, too sad to be played here. They have everything they need. 

Brendon’s outline is sharp, cutting into the glow of the pool light, head tilted and bobbing to the slow beat of the stereo. He rocks to the strings ringing longingly beneath the sad voice. His sunglasses are pushed up into his hair, the cuffs of his slacks rolled up to his knees as his legs sway slowly in the water. Spencer turns the volume down, stepping out from the kitchen to the backyard deck. 

“Am I missing some kind of hint?”, Spencer muses. Brendon grins, reaching out for him to sit. Spencer obliges, taking his hand and kneeling at the pool’s edge to take off his shoes and socks, rolling up the cuffs of his pants. 

“I found this in their record collection. My dad used to have a box of vinyls like this.” Brendon reaches down to flick a bit of water at Spencer, chuckling as he flinches. “Where’d you end up tonight?” 

Spencer settles and dips his feet in the water. He didn’t recall reading on the rental posting that the pool was heated, and he was pleasantly surprised. 

“Back to the Upstairs Bar. It’s a nice place to people-watch.” 

Brendon snorts. “This whole city is for people-watching. Was Linda there again?” 

Spencer loosens his tie, unbuttoning his blazer. “She was. I didn’t think they’d actually have a bottle of Macallan, but she went and found it for me. I didn’t press her that hard for it.” 

“I’d caution you on your relationship with her, Spence.” He rests his temple against Spencer’s shoulder. “Just speaking from experience. You’d have to consider parting with her if this is only a crush. If it’s more…” Brendon swallows thickly, casting his eyes down. Spencer rests a hand on Brendon’s arm. 

“It’s only a crush and it’ll pass.”, Spencer soothes. “If it was more, you’d know. But don’t worry, it’s still just you and me. Is that why you chose such a sad song?” 

Brendon grins. “Maybe. You’re considered a regular over there by now.” He looks up at Spencer now, pale eyes searching and hopeful. “I’d like to meet her sometime. Would you introduce us?” 

“Sure, Bren. I’d be happy to.” Brendon has been a recluse for months. Spencer had picked up on it as soon as they took off of the runway from Chicago. He’d turned down and shied away from any physical contact when he had to. Brendon was quick to bounce back from injuries, but Chicago was different. It was a message; one Brendon was still repenting for. It was relieving that he was trying to venture out again. Episodes had been rare the past few months since and Brendon had played it safe. “I…I don’t want to keep this a secret from you.” Spencer lets out a breath he didn’t know he held. “Pete found us. Well, not _ us. _He found me up at the hotel.” 

Brendon recoils, eyes scanning Spencer for any hint of damage, the scar on his back tingling. He was just beginning to forget about it again. 

“He looked like he came prepared for a fight. I disappointed him when I refused.” 

Brendon’s brow furrows, lips a tense line. “I suppose we made it obvious. He’s a gifted tracker and there isn’t a lot that gets past him. Maybe our time has finally run out. This place has started growing on me.” 

“I convinced him to spare us for now. I told him he could at least give me a moment to thank him for what happened in Sedona.” Spencer gazes out at the lights of steady traffic down Normandie beyond the hedges. 

“Sedona? That was Pete?” Brendon recalls the hint of that scent, that prickle behind his eyes. He’d dismissed it after a month of letting their trail go cold. 

“The worst of the damage wasn’t Pete. They were hunters. Pretty amateur but I was too careless. They had me pinned until…Pete got them off of me. I would’ve been finished had he not shown.” Spencer studies Brendon as his expression softens. 

“I guess I should thank him too for letting you go twice, but that’s probably pointless. He’ll stake me again the first chance he gets. He might skip that and just burn me.” Brendon’s tone is defeated, tired. “At least he can finish the job this time while I still have my wits about me, right?” He smirks up at Spencer, but his eyes are sad. 

“He knows he’ll have to take both of us. Him and his hunter friends.” Brendon perks, a hint of a genuine smile. 

“So, Joe and Andy are here too. It’s been…years. I’m sure Pete has told them about Sitka. I’m surprised we didn’t hear anything from them in Chicago.” 

Spencer lets out a sigh, kicking his feet in the water. The drone of the crickets is a soothing duet with the howls of coyotes in the hills behind the house. “They knew. Pete heard the rumors and ordered the hit.” 

“Do you hate him for it?” 

Spencer huffs. “I’m pretty mad, but, no, I don’t hate him. He doesn’t know us, Bren. I don’t think anyone does. They just know you…or, who you used to be, and that wasn’t your fault.” He chews his lip, choosing his words carefully. “I know who we are. I know you’ve been trying to fix your mistakes; _our _mistakes. I’d do anything in my power to help you, and that’s why…it’s why I convinced him to hear us out.” 

Brendon pulls away from him then, scrutinizing. The record has stopped and the silence is suffocating. Brendon actually looks hurt. “Y-You…_convinced _ him? With what assurances, Spencer?” Brendon’s eyes are searching and frantic. He remembers the burn of the rag soaked in holy water pressed against his mouth, choking him into seizures and being dragged away. He remembers the mind-numbing agony of the wind sock pole sliding through his chest cavity and the heavy weight of the stake, the terror and helplessness of the paralysis. 

“He’ll give us a chance to explain because I asked for it. I wasn’t in Alaska, but I know what you go through. I’ve experienced it. You’re not alone this time and we’re managing. Aren’t we? He could see that.” Spencer knows he was being hasty. The false hope that he could talk his way out this corner they’re backed into feels almost fruitless. Pete is relentless after chasing them across half of the country. Spencer’s half-convinced they’ll have to settle on a new continent, perhaps a 3rd world country, just to escape Pete’s reach. But they’re not the only ones of their kind in the world, and who knows what sort of methods hunters have developed over there after thousands of years with their kind. 

Brendon isn’t as naïve as he was when he had first met Pete. However, if this condition he’s been cursed with is terminal, he’d have a final chance to condone for his sins before Pete turns him to ash. “I hate what you’ve done. I hate how you’ve done it, Spence.”, he finally says. “But thanks. I won’t waste this opportunity. Where will we meet?” 

Spencer’s shoulders drop with relief. “I made him promise it would be somewhere public, or we wouldn’t show. He doesn’t know this place. We’d be safe until we figure out our next move.” Brendon nods. He can’t let his emotions cloud his judgment, no matter how overjoyed and terrified he is at the thought of seeing Pete again. Pete was always reactive, always jumping to the next fire and charging into it head on. It was difficult for Brendon to put himself in Pete’s shoes with his unpredictability. Pete didn’t have to give Brendon all of those chances, and Brendon didn’t have to waste every single one of them. If this was all he was going to get, he wasn’t going to waste this one. Spencer was right; he wasn’t alone. They have forewarning, and Brendon is patient, calculating. Spencer will protect them. 

Brendon sighs, pressing his palms against his eyes, rubbing tiredly. His throat burned. “Mrs. Abernathy had me play pool boy and clean her filters for a couple of hours until I told her I needed to go to bed. I never got a chance to eat. It’s hard keeping up this con sometimes. Have you fed yet?” 

“No, but it’s almost 4. We could find something in the park before dawn. Maybe turn in early tonight?” Spencer playfully bumps his shoulder against Brendon’s, coaxing. “Sound good?” 

“Sure. I’ll still hold you to introducing me to your friend. I need to get out more.” Brendon nods, pulling his feet out of the water and reaches back for his shoes. 


	5. Five

Hollywood Bowl 

Spencer grins, tapping his foot to the beat of the drum, arm draped along the back of the bench as Brendon sways to the melody, tilting his head back against Spencer’s fingers carding through his hair. The scent of pot and sweat is pungent, its cloud hanging over the audience, growing thicker as it dips down toward the stage. As the sun set that evening, Spencer was mindful to pack that neck of Watershed bourbon from the Bairstow’s liquor cabinet for their first venture out together in weeks. He rests the silicone tumbler on his knee after another sip, glancing down at Brendon’s own, empty and forgotten. He leans forward to grab the bottle from the insulated tote, unscrewing the cap to top him off. He earns a playful nudge, as the bottle is almost spent between the two of them, but Brendon smiles just the same. The seats aren’t as full on the second night of the jazz festival. They had the benches farther up the hill all to themselves, and it wasn’t as if the ushers could complain. Spencer swirls his glass before taking another sip, propping his feet up on the next row in front of them. Brendon takes the hint and rests a leg up, leaning his weight comfortably against Spencer’s side and folds his sunglasses on his shirt collar. 

“I remember you said you were a session drummer when we first met.,” Brendon muses. “I’d picture you at work all day doing this, and hated how you always came back smelling like other people.” 

Spencer snorts. “You were wired all the time. Like a wounded animal.” 

“I _was_ a wounded animal. Don’t forget--” 

“I’ll never forget that. You bite like no one else I know.” 

Brendon nurses his glass, pausing as the audience erupts in applause before quickly dying as the jazz ensemble starts into another movement. “Would you take it all back, Spence?” He looks at Brendon now, taking his sunglasses off and sits up to study him. “Just to have those little luxuries again, of doing what you love?” 

“No. You’ve given me an extraordinary life, Bren. Just because the road’s been pretty rocky doesn’t make it all meaningless. If it means having these moments with you, it’s all been worth it.” He gives Brendon’s arm a reassuring squeeze, sipping slowly. “It’s been good, hasn’t it? Would you take it back?” 

Brendon lets out a deep breath, and he’s silent for a long moment. “I was selfish. I wanted you so badly and never considered the life you could have possibly had. You could’ve been down there with them, Spence.” He gestures down at the stage. “You could’ve been famous, or...or started a family.” 

“And what would you have done?” Spencer quips, hoping to stop him while he’s ahead. Brendon relaxes, sinking back against the seat. 

“I... probably would’ve moved here. Probably tried to make a few rounds of auditions and peddle my headshots around town before giving up. I think I would’ve made a nice barista, don’t you?” He tries to smile, throwing out a lame apology for killing the mood. 

“I’d be your best regular. I’d leave you a fat tip in the jar every morning.” Spencer snaps his teeth playfully, chuckling when Brendon finally cracks a genuine smile. It was best just to leave it alone. Their apologies to each other had all been spent in intimate whispers beneath sheets in the desert between Austin and Flagstaff. They’d done their fair share of penance for their trespasses against each other. In the span of an eternity together, it was all water under the bridge. 

Another act sets up on the stage as the audience bustles at a low drone. A few parties head to the exit with their blankets and cushions and Brendon averts his eyes, studying his glass. Their scents pass, mixing with the pot, sweat, and the faint stench of car exhaust from the traffic on the 101. He nods to Spencer’s idea of eating closer to the beach tonight, trying to pique Brendon’s interest with seeing the Santa Monica pier lit up at night for the first time. Brendon’s always missed the waves, missed the way his mother and his sisters would chase and tackle him in the water. He’d always longed to return. The next act begins their set. 

Spencer tenses and sits up again, and Brendon wants to scold him for ruining his vibe, but he knows that scent. He feels that pull behind his eyes, but the glasses come into view instead, and Andy pauses on the stairs, taking them in. Spencer was clear that the meeting would be with conditions. Brendon now realized one of them would be public. Less risk of causing a scene. His first instinct is to offer his hand to Andy, but Spencer is there with his hand on Brendon’s shoulder; a heavy, protective weight. 

There’s a growl rumbling in Spencer’s throat. “Can we help you?” 

Brendon sits up straighter, laying a reassuring hand on Spencer’s knee. “It’s only Andy. It’s okay, Spence.” He sets his glass down on the bench, as Spencer watches him keenly. “How’ve you been?” 

Andy leans against a bench in the aisle, eyes darting between them. “I’m taking a sabbatical. I thought a road trip tracking you two across the country would be more fun than grading papers.” He advances another step and Spencer hisses in warning. Andy throws up his hands in surrender. “Close enough, I get it. I come in peace.” 

“Pete came with you?” Brendon’s voice is hopeful, eyes searching the trees on the edges of the bowl. 

“He’s taking his time."

His face falls, scratching at his nose, but Spencer can smell it too. The spice of anger and basalm lingers on Andy's clothes. "I didn't expect much after the other night. He didn't exactly come with open arms. More like...a stake." Spencer mutters, but Brendon only wrings his hands. 

"He's probably still mad." Brendon rationalizes, and sure, that's obvious after the massacre in Alaska, but Brendon's willingly vulnerable. Despite Andy's assurance, he could be hiding a ridiculous dagger or a UV light somewhere up his ass. Spencer would put good money on the dagger. "If you see him, Andy..." he stutters, but Andy nods, still scrutinizing. 

"I'll tell him you said hi." 

Brendon ducks his head, pursing his lips as he folds his arms protectively. "I was hoping to...perhaps tell him in person before I let him put me down." Spencer bristles, but Brendon leans back against him, seeking the solid comfort. Spencer's hand braces his shoulder. "Or...he sent you to do it?" 

Spencer actually growls now, and he'll be damned if he lets anyone touch them. But Andy only smirks, tilting his head curiously. "Interesting. You'd go willingly?" he asks. "Is this Brendon I'm speaking to, or Beckett?" Andy's tone is dry, objective, as he studies them. His eyes linger on Brendon's, fingers tapping against the bench. 

A mass of wild hair, barely tamed back into bun, trudges up the steps with a paper boat of concessions, waving to get their attention, and Brendon breaks into a grin at the sight of Joe. The faint scent of the basalm could easily be missed under the pungent odor of the food. Spencer spots the outline of the boot knife strapped to Joe's ankle beneath his jeans and he's not sure what reality he's currently in where Brendon can be so relaxed around hunters, where every cell in his body is screaming to _ run _ _ run _ _ run _ . Joe barely acknowledges them as he comes up to perch on the bench beside Andy. "They have bahn mi at the concession stand! This is the fanciest shit I've ever seen." Andy glares at him, crossing his arms and ankles leisurely, waiting to catch Joe's attention before gesturing to the two. Joe doesn't seem perturbed, rolling his eyes. "I _ know _. Hey, man." He nods briefly to Brendon, though he barely gives a second glance to Spencer. 

Brendon licks his lips, warring with himself before taking his seat again, tugging at Spencer's wrist to follow. It's a gentle squeeze, but the command can be felt in Spencer's veins, reverberating through him until he relents and sits, pressing against Brendon's side with an arm draped across the back of the bench, muscles rigid. Andy is intrigued. 

"How do we know this is even Brendon? You remember how Pete described Sitka." Andy chastises, only earning a scoff from Joe in retort, picking at the bun in the paper boat. 

Joe turns to them, almost bored. "Brendon, are you feeling homicidal?" Brendon shakes his head. _ No _ . "Is your buddy feeling homicidal?" Spencer almost wants to nod, but Brendon shakes his head. _ Negative _ . "Are you insane, at this very moment?" Brendon pauses, glancing to Spencer as if he's unsure, before shaking his head again. _ No _. "If you are who you say you are, what did you do after we brought you back home from Beckett?" 

Brendon's brows knit for a moment as he thinks, trying to place the memory. Joe almost looks bored. "You let me shower. Patrick made me that blend he used to give me and Pete... and then, I threw it all up in your sink." 

"It's him." Joe sits back, satisfied, turning his attention back to the steamed bun. Spencer must be the only one not on fucking crazy pills. He gestures to Joe. "How do we know _ you two _ aren't homicidal? This one practically has a Bowie knife on his ankle, and. ..who knows what _ he _ has stashed away. Pete promised this would be civil. _He's_ the one who should be here. Not you two." Spencer spits. 

Brendon lays a hand on his knee, trying to calm him with an almost broken "_ Spence. _" 

But Joe only shrugs, waving at Andy. "No, he's not missing anything. Genius over here stashed a silver butterfly knife in his briefs for emergencies, but holy water is his go-to. He's smart, Bren." Spencer begins to relax at his candidness. This one clearly didn't come for a fight. The other, _ Andy _, is nothing but cryptic, probing him behind the dark-rimmed glasses. 

Brendon’s grin widens, straining on his lips, almost shrugging off Spencer’s anxious squeeze of his shoulder. “Spence, these...these are my brothers. Joe, Andy, this is Spencer.” And he seems to be the only one at ease. Spencer imagines setting them on fire with his eyes, gaze piercing. Brendon squeezes his knee again when Spencer doesn’t give them an ounce of courtesy, lips practically twitching to bare his teeth. Spencer is simmering on the anecdote Brendon once told him: that long ago, his brothers poisoned him with holy water. The same brothers he was so at-ease with now. 

“Where did you find this one, Bren? It’s like you’re running around with fucking Robocop.” Joe teases, and Brendon barks out a laugh. 

“No,” Brendon answers. “We just happened to find each other in at The Governor’s Ball a few years back. I’m sorry for his behavior though. He’s always been pretty laid-back, even before...” 

“You turned him.” Andy states, eyeing the scar at the crook of Spencer’s throat. Brendon pulls back into Spencer’s side for a moment, relaxing at the firm grip of Spencer’s hand on his arm. Andy doesn’t miss a thing. 

Joe only leans closer, swallowing another mouthful of duck and bean sprouts. “You really did turn someone? Shit, I didn’t think you had it in you.” Brendon only shrinks further against Spencer. 

He mumbles, “Neither did I.” 

Andy rests his arms on his knees, leaning closer. “And who’s in control here? Who pulls the strings?” 

Spencer lets out a huff. For how many times he’d corrected Pete and deflected his petty insults that Spencer was a pawn, he should’ve dismissed what little faith he’d put in him to speak truth to what they’d discussed. He’s trying to do right by Brendon. _ Be kinder. Be better _ . Spencer could only handle being played so many times. Brendon picks up on the burning spice of anger he’s giving off. “_We’re equals_. We look after each other, and sometimes one of us needs to be reminded that we’re okay.” Brendon reaches back to press the pads of his fingers against the nape of Spencer’s neck. He visibly sinks at Brendon’s touch, the contact an anchoring, soothing balm to his rising anger. 

Andy finally grins. “I’d love to hear more about that. If you have time, I’d like to ask--” 

“Fuck, _ here we go _. Now that you’ve got him going, he won’t shut up about it.” Joe groans. Andy smacks at his head. Brendon’s cautious smile grows as the two bicker, massaging the crook of Spencer’s shoulder to drain any remaining tension. 

The years apart show in the flecks of gray in Andy’s beard, the lines around his eyes, new tattoos in the formerly blank spaces on his arms. Joe’s hands are calloused, waving as throws back scathing retorts, and Brendon can spot the multitudes of faint scars under his beard. Brendon envies them. 

“Hold on,” he finally says, halting their spat. “_ Doctorate _? Andy, you’re a doctor.” 

Joe’s eyes roll so hard that Spencer thinks they might’ve gotten stuck back there in the empty space of his head. He’s actually amused. He’s ignored as Andy preens at the acknowledgement. “He can’t _actually_ help anyone. He just likes to hear himself talk.” 

Andy’s pride swells, unperturbed. “The first two were for psychology and anthropology. I’m working on a thesis in occult studies and parapsychology. Patrick’s research has helped a great deal. Maybe you can help fill in some of the gaps for me?” 

Brendon agrees without hesitation. 

\- 

They part with the assurance of another meeting. After moments of heavy persuasion, Spencer relents and gives them his number. The idea that Brendon can still retain some semblance of anonymity eases his fears. So far, the city has become a sanctuary, their scents easily blending into the saturated populace. 

When they feed on the beach, the girl Brendon holds in his arms laughs, taking her last breaths with a contented smile before he eases her down in the sand under the pier. The euphoria is contagious, and he licks the excess from his lips with a peace that Spencer hasn’t seen before. He hangs on Spencer, pressing against him with gentle touches, always in contact. Stories pour out of him, plans falling over themselves with hope and determination. Brendon’s faith in his brothers is bulletproof. 

In the early hours of the morning, draped across the Eames lounger as a Patsy Cline record spins on the turntable, Brendon starts to sing.


	6. Six

Brendon sings every night. From small hums in the shower, to full on belting out Whitney Houston and Andrea Bocelli, Spencer records them all. They walk on air, and Brendon caters to Spencer’s every request and idea without question. His smile is blinding. 

Spencer’s still vigilant the following weeks with every meeting with Brendon’s brothers despite the looming absence of the third brother. It’s always unspoken, but the spice of his scent lingers on their clothes. Spencer begins to relax with every joke Joe makes at their expense, only to follow with another at himself. He drifts toward Spencer, and their conversations of Joe’s growing auto restoration business and Spencer’s reminiscence of all the food he used to love never fade with each meeting. He grows fond of Andy’s probing questions about their nature, and Brendon’s lack of hesitance to answer them. He’s always recording their conversations, and if a particular topic is too sensitive for Brendon to put to words, Spencer is there to take over with his _explain-like-I'm-five_ interpretation. And despite Brendon’s brothers meeting them every night with knives and flasks of holy water stashed somewhere on their person, Spencer eases at their lack of use. 

Brendon grows bolder. When Spencer introduces him to the waitress at the bar, Linda, the care and compassion he shows her almost makes Spencer jealous, but she eases into step with them as they buy her a late dinner. The conversation is so easy, dancing from topic to topic as they watch her eat and their repeated refusals of offers to share her eggplant tortellini. Brendon is smitten with her, and Spencer can only sit back and admire the way she grins back after Brendon feels comfortable enough to take off his sunglasses. She’s in awe when they invite her to the house in Los Feliz, and they pamper her relentlessly. She’s fearless. They worship her on the crisp linens of their bed, and every nip and bite from their sharp doubles is matched by her blunt teeth. Brendon is attentive after and quick to fetch her several glasses of water, offering to order any dish overflowing with protein for delivery. His hand is gentle when it rests on Spencer’s shoulder. With a subtle shake of his head, he forbids Spencer to compel her again. Brendon’s voice is soft when he invites her back to spend the evening with them again and promise to be discrete about them and this new arrangement. 

Their schedule is structured now. Brendon has a slight bounce in his step. Spencer stands a little straighter. Their bond strengthens, and with the confidence that they will return by dawn, they begin to part in the evening. Spencer comes home with a wide grin and a mustard stain on his blue Dodger cap after attending a game with Joe, and he doesn’t feel an ounce of jealousy when Brendon is dripping in Linda’s scent, preparing an omelet for her at the stove as she waits by the pool. The smile Brendon gives him is so easy. It's something Spencer can understand. They feel alive. 

Spencer dotes on her, threatening to send her several unsolicited boxes of cookies if she isn’t careful when they stroll in Westwood Village. Since they met for the evening, the gentle squeezes of her hand and the chirp of her laugh had eased the anxiety that was gripping him at the thought of what could possibly happen to Brendon after he let his brothers meet him alone. She picks up on his curt answers, trying to soften the edges that seemed to appear overnight. His smile eases as she fills him in on the petty drama between her roommates and the scandal of an unspoken and unprofessional relationship happening with upper management at the bar. She points to an armchair on display as they pass a shop. Spencer tells himself that it isn’t charity, but a gift, as he plans to purchase and have it delivered to her apartment. She never makes him feel like anything but a person, just a charming man she met one night. He wonders if she forgets sometimes. 

She presses the signal for the crosswalk, musing about this hole-in-the-wall noodle bar just up the street that they absolutely have to try. He grins at her enthusiasm, leaning closer to press a chaste kiss to her cheek, but that scent is back. It's stronger, burning at his nostrils and he stands straighter, eyes searching until they land across the street at the other end of the light. Pete watches him with a calculated gaze between passing cars. Spencer’s lip trembles to bare his teeth. When the signal changes, Pete advances leisurely, hands in his pockets, and Spencer pulls Linda behind him protectively. 

Linda had not experienced even a solid ounce of Spencer’s instincts before now, and she shies against Spencer’s back, squeezing his hand in a vise. Pete's thrift store wolf shirt and short stature alone would be laughable in any other circumstance, but Spencer was fully aware of the raw strength he possessed. “Ma’am, are you under duress?” he asks. Spencer almost snarls at the slight, but Linda stands firm, shaking her head and clinging to Spencer’s side. 

“Can I help you, Pete?” Spencer grits his teeth. _Be kind. Be better._

It earns him a shrug. “I’m concerned for the lady you have on your arm.” Pete says. “I smelled her on Brendon, and I find her here with you. So, if she’s not being compelled, she knows what you are. Is this a long-term kind of thing?” 

“I like being with them.” Linda interjects, voice defiant. “They’re kind to me.” 

Pete smirks, but Spencer doesn’t miss the pain that flashes in his eyes. “I’m sure. I’m just curious if Brendon is aware that he’s hypocrite-enough for the both of you.” 

Spencer covers the growl in his throat with a cough and gives Linda’s hand a squeeze. His whispers are promising but firm that she continue to the noodle bar, take an Uber home, and that he or Brendon would text her later. She’s reluctant, eyes darting between them before nodding to Spencer’s imploring eyes. She kisses his cheek before she goes, stealing several glances behind her as she crosses the street. 

Pete watches her go, lips a tense line before he turns back to Spencer. “So, which one of you is gonna kill her? Even if it’s just some fling, one of you will probably give in to that little urge. Brendon had no problem the first time.” 

Spencer sighs, folding his arms. “You followed _us_ here, Pete. We’ve done nothing to you. Your brothers should have enough proof by now that we aren’t a threat.” 

“And it looks like history is repeating itself. There’s nothing stopping me from putting an end to both of you and saving that girl’s life.” 

Spencer snarls, lunging at Pete and pinning him against a parked Prius. He ignores the alarm as his hand squeezes around Pete’s throat. “No one will touch him. And you will leave Linda alone. Brendon may not defend himself against you, but I’ll make sure he doesn’t have to.” He feels that pull again, those freezing fingers tickling the back of his neck. Pete watches him, studying the way Spencer hesitates and pulls back. The haze over his eyes briefly clears to reveal the icy blue behind it. “No,” Spencer says. “I promised him we’d be better. I won’t let it in.” 

He backs off of Pete, carding a hand through his hair to ground himself and searches his pockets for his sunglasses. The haze returns. 

“You need to let her go, Spencer. If you love her, you’d give her that courtesy.” Pete smooths out the wrinkles of his shirt. Spencer is ashamed, losing his composure in front of an adversary. “Has he told you that story?” 

Spencer nods briefly. “He knows it’s still just the two of us, no matter who comes in and out of our lives. But I’ll tell her. I’m sorry for what happened...in Alaska.” Pete tilts his head. 

“And you know that one of those he murdered was someone I loved? Maybe if I would’ve listened to him, I could’ve prevented it all.” Pete’s shoulders fall as Spencer gives a resigned nod. 

“Was it Patrick?” Spencer asks. He’s curious, almost whispering. Pete can’t fault him for that. He shakes his head. 

“I was seeing a girl in Alaska. I tried to convince myself it was a fling, but he saw right through me and told me to let her go. I didn’t listen, and she was just another body in his path. So, you should let this girl go.” There’s a crack in the wall Pete’s built around himself. 

Spencer folds his arms again. “You’ve been hanging in the wings for a while. Was that an empty threat, or is this your emotionally constipated way of breaking the ice?” 

“I’m not...” Pete starts, but then smirks, flashing teeth. “Yeah, I'm probably emotionally constipated. I guess it was an empty threat. Joe’s become too attached and Andy won’t let anyone get between him and a dissertation. There are too many bodies in the way of getting to Brendon anyway. I’d have to get you both together since you look like a handful and I can’t imagine what state he’d be in if I killed you, so I’m out of options for now. I have more time to work on the emotions issue.” Spencer can’t help but grin. Pete’s shoulders slump, scratching absently at his chin. “It’s impossible to track anything in this city anyway. The only reason I found you was because Brendon actually said it out loud. He trusts you enough to fly solo?” 

Spencer lets out an melodramatic sigh. “It feels like me trusting your _brothers_ with him, but I’m starting to think you’re right.” Pete looks up at him and the crack in that wall widens. “So, we have a truce? Do we shake hands?” 

Pete barks out a laugh and stands straighter, taking a few steps away to put distance between them. “I’m not shaking your hand.” 

Spencer chews his lip. He wants to ditch him so badly and rub it in his face for being a coward for weeks. He missed his chance, but then that wasn’t what Brendon would want. Be kind. Be better, you fucking idiot. “Well, depending on how territorial you are, maybe you’d want to find something to eat together? You kind of ruined my date and I’m getting peckish.” There’s a beat as Pete looks him over, almost predatory. He nods. 

They choose a couple of obnoxious undergrad students boasting about their Pepperdine scholarships as they stumble out of a bar. Pete covers the kid’s scream with a firm hand on his mouth when he takes the bite, and it’s like Pete’s soul leaves his body as he feeds, eyes going distant. Spencer’s victim is quiet and pliant in a giddy haze as he compels him, finishing quickly before resting the body against the wall. Pete looks at him with a mix of horror and awe as Spencer wipes the excess from his chin. “What?” Spencer asks. 

Pete blinks, stepping back to give Spencer space. “You, um...you compel them like that?” And Spencer tilts his head, scowling like Pete was trying to convince him the earth was flat. 

“I told you, it doesn’t have to hurt. I don’t play with them, and they don’t have to feel the pain.” Pete nods slowly. “Bren taught me. Do you want me to show you?” 

This time, Pete is eager to agree. 

\- 

Upstairs, Ace Hotel 

“Will you tell me?” Pete asks passively, tossing back a shot of vodka and wincing at the burn as it goes down. 

Spencer grins. He keeps trying. Every week, Pete will try to sneak in the question in hopes that Spencer lets his guard down. “Now why would I do that? Just so you can send one of your friends out and set the place on fire while we sleep?” 

Pete shrugs. “Worth a shot. You still don’t trust me.” 

“Not enough to tell you that.” Spencer looks out over the balcony ledge, watching the traffic light on 9th change color again. He turns and relaxes against the rail. It’s gotten easier, he’ll admit. Though Pete has been persistent, he’s been patient. He’ll give that credit to his brothers for reigning him in and giving him a chance to prove himself. Spencer is just as persistent.

“But you’ll at least tell me how he’s been doing? If he’s...been _himself_?” 

Spencer slides the shot glass away and pulls his sunglasses off, folding them on his shirt collar. He tilts his head curiously, eyes darting to Joe perched with a beer by the bar before settling on Pete again. Joe was easy to read, no bullshit, and after a 5-minute scrap, he’s made up his mind about you. Spencer trusts Joe. Pete simply looks tired, but there’s rage. The acidic burn of the scent is embedded in his skin. “How would you define Brendon as _himself_? We probably have different ideas of what that even means.” 

Pete has a biting retort ready to slip from his tongue, but Spencer’s looking at him and the tension drains from his shoulders. There’s nothing laced in his tone. He watches Pete like he’s studying a painting for the first time, inquisitive and relaxed. 

“He was _so loud_,” Pete sighs. “He never had an off-switch, always wanted to be involved, wanted to know everything there was to know, but...when everyone was so absorbed on the micro, he’d come in and ask about something...something just _so_ out of left field that it turned out the be the one relevant question that turned out to be the linchpin all along.” His eyes burn and frantically wipes with his sleeve at the phantom tears, and Spencer is patient, leaning leisurely against the railing, fingers loosely weaved. “When did your eyes turn?” 

“It became permanent in New York." Spencer says immediately. "Many firsts happened in New York, the good and the bad.” His resolve falters then as he watches his shoes. He wets his lips and finally looks at Pete, so direct that Pete leans back an inch. Was there something on his face? “Brendon attacked me. He was broken and starving when he found me, but I guess we both were back then. I didn’t take him so seriously at first and he attacked again. Since then I’ve seen so many horrors and I’ve committed a few. And I know for certain that the thing that killed me was_ not_ Brendon. What he passed onto me is not who I am. Brendon is still curious. He’s so curious that I have to reign him in most of the time. He’s been so patient as I’ve learned from him, and there’s a kindness that I’ve never experienced before with anyone I've ever met. He’s finally let himself accept that he’s a victim of circumstance. We all are.” Spencer signals the bartender for another round. “We’re all each other has in the world, Pete. I hope you can excuse my being over-cautious. It’s not just instinct. I’ll protect him at all costs. He asks about you every night, Pete, and he still thinks of you as a brother. All of you.” 

Pete looks away then, scrubbing his hand over his mouth. “It’s hard for me to believe. What I saw, it wasn’t him at all.” Spencer starts to form a retort, but Pete presses, and his voice is so tired. “Your actions and... the rumors, Spencer. They drown everything else out. How do you know it isn’t some new game of his?” 

Spencer thinks for a long moment, scratching absently at his beard. “Brendon has something that William never did. Brendon carries the guilt of everything he’s done, and if I could take anything away from freshman psych class in college, it's that a psychopath doesn't have a conscience. His remorse fuels his kindness, and he’s never sought power.” He nods when a waitress brings another round, and though polite, his smile is forced. “He hasn’t stopped trying to atone for what he did.” 

He throws back another shot, and just maybe, Spencer thinks, he’s finally starting to feel drunk for once. He can fake it. He can get away with it. He holds out the other to Pete, shifting his glare to patronizing, to drive the point that he was not going to drink alone. It will not be wasted in Spencer’s presence. Pete grimaces once the glass is emptied, and he’s making a note never to go up against Spencer in a game of chicken, or really, any suicidal drinking game. After several attempts to swallow the lingering aftertaste, Pete cards a hand through his hair. “It could happen again. And the next time, it’ll be worse. Maybe he won’t come back.” 

“There’s always a risk.” Spencer nods, tipping his head back to look over the skyline. “It isn’t just you anymore,” he adds, voice mellow. “It’s not just you against this...infection. I know how it feels and where he goes to stop it.” 

“And what if you can’t? If it...if it takes you too?” 

Spencer nods again. “_There’s always a risk._ Being with him in itself is a risk.” 

“If you _couldn’t_,” Pete’s voice waivers for a moment before he wets his lips. “If you couldn’t pull him back, would you even have the strength to put him down?” 

Spencer’s knuckles go white around the rail, restraining himself from baring his teeth at the inference that Brendon was just some animal, biting back the snarl. “I would. If Brendon found the strength to kill his maker, I could.” 

Pete sighs. “That was revenge.” 

And Spencer actually barks a laugh, shaking his head at this poor, dumb child. “He _loved_ you, Pete. He went against his own instincts and years of abuse because he fucking _loved_ you. Brendon deserves so much more than the hand he’s been dealt. You had it so easy. You could just...walk off what happened to you while Bren... _fuck, you just smell it on him_. I could be blinded by love, but I know that he'd rather die than be a prisoner in his own head. I’d do it, or die trying.” 

\- 

Downtown, Spring St. 

Spencer nods to a Carpenters song playing over the speakers as he scans the café menu. Brendon paces behind him, watching the street beyond the shop window. He checks his phone again and reads over Joe and Andy’s food orders, having jumped at Spencer’s offer to buy. He squints at the message before stepping up to the counter, throwing back a glance to check that Brendon hasn’t worn a hole in the floor, and charms the barista. As he reads their orders from the text verbatim, it finally dawns on him that those two bastards chose the priciest items on the menu. He’s gonna spit in them for good measure. He pulls out a bill from his wallet and stuffs the change into the tip jar, taking the receipt before crowding into Brendon’s space. Spencer swears it’s a habit that his hand goes to Brendon’s neck first, working that knot in the crux between his shoulders. 

“This doesn’t feel right.” Brendon whines. The knot is particularly stubborn, and he looks up at Spencer, brows furrowed. “Why are you buying food? We can’t eat.” 

“I never said the food was for _us_.” Spencer turns back to the counter to grab the beverage tray and takeout bag. “Find a good spot for us outside. I see a few tables open.” He nudges Brendon’s jacket with a bit more force than intended when Brendon stumbles through the doorway. 

Brendon itches, restlessness crawling through his veins and prickling along his skin in irritating waves. The leather jacket he’d decided on wearing earlier that night was starting to feel more and more like a mistake. None of this feels right and Spencer had been unusually cryptic since they’d fed hours earlier. He was going to pry answers out of Spencer, and if it took Brendon locking him out of the house until sunrise, so be it. He lingers by the patio tables, falling behind Spencer and glaring a hole in his back as his lips start to curl back. “You’re going to tell me right now, Spencer Smith.” he spits, and Spencer has the audacity to look back with this stupid, innocent, deer-in-the-headlights expression. Brendon rips his sunglasses off and waves them around for emphasis, his composure slowly slipping. “I thought we were done with the tests and the games. You’re not going to put me through that bullshit again.” 

He towers over Spencer now as he’s sat down, and though Spencer tries to placate him, gently tugging on the sleeve of his jacket to sit down and prevent causing a scene, Brendon is having none of it. He’s had enough and this goddamn jacket is suffocating him. He tugs it off in a fit and throws it on the table in disgust, rolling his shoulders with relief, but _no_, he’s not done with Spencer. “If it’s some kind of comfort and having...Jesus, _two_ steak and egg sandwiches just to help you feel normal, then I get it. Fine. But something is going on and if you don’t stop with this enigmatic bullshit, I swear to god, Spence, I’m going to compel you to tell me...” 

Brendon almost hisses, because Spencer isn’t even looking at him anymore, leaning to the left with a smug grin that Brendon almost wants to rip off of his face, but he turns, following Spencer’s line of sight to the opening of hedges at the mouth of the patio and Andy’s sly smile. 

“How much do we owe you, Spence?” he muses, and Joe shoves past him, making a beeline for the paper bag to pull out the sandwiches, taking a seat across from Spencer. 

“We owe him nothing. He offered to pay.” Joe mumbles around a mouthful, groaning. “I’m making a pilgrimage back here before I die. _Holy fuck_.” 

Spencer only rolls his eyes and distributes the cups from the beverage tray. “Regular Red Eye for the pig over here, and... regular Matcha Tea Misto for you, Dr. Hurley.” Andy fits himself onto the last vacant stool at the table and slides his cup closer with a grateful nod, eyeing the receipt peeking out of the paper bag and digs through his pocket to slide a folded bill toward Spencer with a subtle wink. Brendon is left gaping at the same stupid, knowing grin on Spencer’s face. 

Was this his surprise? The shock wore off weeks ago at the company of his brothers, and don’t get him wrong, Brendon preens at the attention, he really does. But Spencer didn’t beat around the bush about their presence before, almost hostile at their first few meetings. And now Brendon feels silly, pinching the bridge of his nose, hoping Spencer doesn’t get the satisfaction of smelling the embarrassment radiating off of Brendon’s shoulders. He should be grateful. Who knows how long this period will last, when Joe and Andy need to return to their lives in Chicago? Who knows when Brendon will get the opportunity to see them again? 

He clears his throat, carding a hand through his hair, and his apology is more for his own bruised ego. “Sorry, I...I was reading it all wrong. Tonight’s just felt so off--” 

Andy snorts as he nurses his paper cup. “What are you sorry for? Bleeding-heart over there is the one who should be sorry. He’s brooding up a storm.” 

Joe chimes in gleefully. “Yeah, Pete, don’t be such a little bitch!” 

Spencer watches the line of Brendon’s back snap to attention, arms going slack as his attention turns to the hedge, and for a moment, he rises from the table, poised to intervene. Andy looks up at him with a hand on his wrist, shaking his head and turns back to Brendon, stepping cautiously toward Pete when he finally comes forward. He’s fed, Spencer can tell, but he honestly wants to call him out on how much sleep he’s lost. The shadows under his eyes put Brendon’s to shame, and looking like his soul’s conveniently left his body. 

Brendon's fingers twitch at his sides, and Spencer doesn't have to see his face to know his heart is breaking. The bittersweet mix of grief and optimism burns at Spencer's nose and he's close to calling this all off, that even if his faith in Pete to not outright torch Brendon on the spot is wearing thin. Brendon's voice finally cuts through the silence, and it's broken, wounded. "I've been behaving myself." Pete's face falls, for a moment, hurt flashing in his eyes before Brendon rushes him, pulling him into a crushing hug. He clings to Pete's shoulders, letting out what Spencer can only place as a strangled whine. His instincts are screaming to protect, to pull Brendon away and shield him, take him home where Pete can't find him in the city's homogeneous soup of scents and sounds. His body must be miles ahead of his brain when Joe already has a handful of his cardigan, grounding him. 

Pete's frozen as Brendon buries his nose against the worn material of his shirt, drinking in the scent and shivers, but Pete still isn't moving, like he doesn't believe he's even here or this is the most vivid hallucination he's ever had. Brendon shifts, whispering into Pete's ear, still clinging, and Pete's face crumbles, pinched with grief. His arms finally catch up to his brain and now Brendon is real. He's real, solid in Pete's arms, clutching Brendon's shirt in a spot only Spencer knows is too sensitive for Brendon to let anyone near. 

Spencer turns when the scent becomes unbearable, when their promises and apologies become too much for Joe and Andy to even look at anymore. This sense of normalcy settles over Spencer's shoulders, heavy and tangible. Stealing another glance back at them as they've made space at the adjacent table, Spencer makes note of the new fire in Brendon's eyes as he listens to Pete, watching the animated movement of his hands as he describes their journey. He absently asks Andy how the thesis is coming along, but it drones off, blending into the white noise of the city.

Pete pulls a cloth from his pocket, folded delicately in his palm and as he unwraps it, Brendon's head is now buried in his hands. The platinum ring is polished, reflecting the string of patio bulbs, and Spencer should be jealous of the gesture when Pete pulls an identical piece from the thin chain around his neck. He should, but it isn't a smitten or even forlorn look that spreads across Brendon's face. This is older and deeper than that. It's gratitude.

The weeks of waiting, circling, planning, were worth it as the last bits of tension drains from Brendon's shoulders. His smile is wider, eyes a little brighter.

They can make this work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Pete Wentz knows we make fun of him because we love him.


	7. Seven

Venice Beach 

_We were picking up breakfast last night and at one of the tables in the diner, Joe swears he saw Kendall Jenner._

_It was her! It’s was so obvious!_

_You saw really saw Kendall Jenner…in a diner…in The Valley…in the middle of the night?_

_I did! No one else has that kind of bone structure! _

_Hold on. Who is Kendall Jenner?_

Pete admires the squabble from the end of the tables they’ve pushed together, resting his chin against his palm. Joe is scrolling furiously on his phone for the right picture for Brendon to reference as Spencer and Andy are grappling with the logistics and probability of someone so high profile going so far out of their way to set foot in a local joint. Pete feels those roots taking hold of him again, digging deeper and anchoring him. The pull behind his eyes feels faint and almost foreign in Brendon’s presence, and the sense of urgency has all but disappeared as he studies Brendon’s cautious smile, sliding Joe’s phone back across the table. The brief moment their eyes meet, and that soft smirk is directed at him, Pete can’t help the fond roll of his eyes at the exchange. Brendon is glued to Spencer’s side, making small touches and almost reminding themselves that this is real and there is no longer a fight. They have nothing to run from. 

They can ignore the stench of the food that Joe and Andy had ordered that is routinely whisked away by the sea breeze and overpowering odor of the artificial canals only blocks over. Brendon grins and lets out a giddy laugh when Joe is trying in vain to form a sentence around his mouthful of carne asada, much to Spencer’s disgust. This ease feels so alien to Pete, and the reflex to reject all of it is so strong until Spencer is trying to get his attention again with a nudge to his knee. There’s a fond look of concern directed at Pete as he offers an invitation to join them for a walk, and maybe pick up a meal before dawn, Brendon’s grin thrown over Spencer’s shoulder to give him little room to refuse. 

Joe and Andy are eager to ditch them in order to find a bookshop in Santa Monica before closing that Andy is sure has a massive effigy of Tyr carved from a rowan stump for sale, though Joe is keen on cleaning them out of their stock of silver ingots he confirmed online. And that leaves Pete in the awkward position of being the third wheel. He hangs back despite Brendon’s efforts to pull him closer. Pete feels like an outsider, and it keeps washing over him like a bucket of ice. He barely remembers nodding when they’re pulled into a small circle outside of a bike shop and Spencer passes the lit joint to him. Brendon leans back with Spencer against the shop window, letting the smoke drift out of his nostrils like a dragon as the others watch expectantly. He finally takes a hit at the uncomfortable spotlight cast on him. He coughs and sputters as it burns his throat, trying to hold it in but he’s commended for his efforts before passing it along. Pleasantries are exchanged and he’s almost taken by how effortlessly the white lie Spencer feeds them comes out of his mouth. It’s taken easily and the others in the circle welcome them, shaking their hands without hesitance. The air around them is thick with the haze, but they fall back into their private conversations. Spencer picks a bit of lint off of the shirt Pete swears he saw Brendon wearing once as he takes another drag, and another roll is produced with a quick exchange of a bill from Brendon’s pocket. Pete offers Joe’s borrowed lighter. Brendon takes it with an amused grin but doesn’t question it, lighting it and taking another drag, passing it back to Pete with the lighter. 

“I thought we were going to eat, or...walk.” Pete muses. The second hit is easier and released slower. Spencer snorts and takes the joint as it’s passed. 

Brendon only smiles at him, rolling his shoulders. “This _is_ the walk. Unless the thirst is really unbearable, we can hang out for a bit. Are you okay?” 

Pete nods but refuses when it’s his turn again. “I can’t feel anything. Why are we even smoking?” 

“We’re allowed to feel normal. It shouldn’t always have to be hunting and killing and hiding. Things still happen with or without us, and we can enjoy it sometimes.” Spencer says, taking a long drag and passes it back for Brendon to finish. The others look back at them and nod with easy smiles. They have no idea, and the anonymity is foreign but almost a comfort to Pete. Brendon takes a final hit and stubs out the roach. 

The fog rolling in from the beach prickles the nape of Pete’s neck, dampening the collar of his shirt. Brendon kicks absently at Pete’s boot, chewing on the drawstring of the sweatshirt hanging on his shoulders. The glow of the backlight of Spencer’s phone illuminates his face, and Spencer doesn’t look up from the screen as he pulls the string away from Brendon’s mouth, only for Brendon to chew it again, fidgeting with the platinum ring on his finger. Spencer turns the screen for Pete to see with a toothy grin. Pete matches it. The bookstore _did_ have that sculpture, and Pete wonders what else that place is hiding in lieu of Andy’s victory text. Brendon mumbles around the string that he wants Joe to send a picture of a giant bag of silver nuggets before Spencer pulls the string away again. Pete starts to notice the sweatshirt is riddled with nicks and holes. 

“How old is that?” Pete points, reaching for the material. It’s thin between his fingers. “It looks like it’s falling apart.” 

Brendon tugs on the hood, beaming in the yellow neon glow of the shop sign. “I found it a long time ago in Spencer’s things. It looked comfortable and he let me borrow it.” 

“He stole it.” Spencer cuts in as he taps at the screen. Brendon grins back at him. 

“I stole it.” he says proudly. 

Pete looks him over and steals a glance back at the circle that’s now drifted closer to the bar down the street. “It’s Labor Day, man. In SoCal.” 

“He knows.” Spencer accuses, almost bored. “I even told him what the forecast would be tonight, to his face, and he still put on the beanie.” 

Brendon’s look of betrayal is paper-thin, but he plays it well. “Jesus, will you let me live my life?” Spencer lets out a snort and nudges his shoulder. Brendon pulls the beanie off self-consciously, running a hand through his hair before tugging it back on, trying to fight the smile pulling at the corners of his lips. 

There was an ease, almost telepathic nature to this that Pete still couldn’t understand. His travels with Brendon were all about guessing, reading him and anticipating the episodes that grew in severity. This relationship between Brendon and Spencer ebbed and flowed so easily. Spencer had Brendon’s ear. He had more than just his ear. He gestures between them. “This is the weirdest sire/progeny dynamic I’ve ever seen.” 

Spencer rolls his eyes so hard Pete is sure they’d get stuck. Brendon only smirks, tilting his head. “What else can you compare it to?” Pete only shrugs. “We have William, but he was like Satan incarnate. I don’t know about what he did to you, but he literally forbid me to form attachments. And when I turned Spence, _the way I turned him_, I’m gonna be a dick too? No way.” Spencer gives Pete a side-eyed glance. 

“I’m not implying that he’s subservient or...less. This is just...I don’t know. It’s like you’re dating.” And Spencer tosses him that glance again. Brendon barks out a laugh. 

“Spencer had never met me before and the first thing he did was take me in. He never asked me for anything, never took. Like you did. And I love you both for that. But...” 

“What, are you two fucking or something?” 

The silence is heavy, and Pete hates the way they’re both looking at him, but it’s there. The answer slaps him across the face. Okay, _okay_, he gets it. The grimace is sharp. 

“That’s all it takes?” he asks. “I couldn’t get through to you back then because we didn’t fuck?” 

“Look,” Brendon says, scratching at his jaw. “You can sleep with a thousand people and think that you've connected with their soul, or whatever. Then there's just one person whose scent you know so well, trapped together in a few manic episodes, and they still stick it out with you. Sleeping with them is kind of inevitable. There’s still that dynamic between a sire and their progeny underneath it all, but some kind of switch just turns on and they’re in your head with you and you can feel them across the second-largest city in the country. They’re there before you can even ask for help, you’re just sick at the idea of ever hurting each other, and the experience ruins everything else because nothing will ever compare to it.” Brendon glances at Spencer for an affirmation and the nod is subtle. 

“You’re actually serious?” 

“Spencer's friend from the bar was beautiful and very sweet and it was fun. Maybe in another life, but as I am, if it _really_ came down to choosing between Spence and any guy or girl on the planet, well..." Pete scuffs his boot against the concrete, feeling smaller and smaller. His thoughts spiral, and they must be too loud when Brendon leans closer. “I love you to death, Pete. Before Alaska, we didn’t know how to deal with the episodes and I didn’t know how to tell you how bad it was becoming until I snapped and you left me paralyzed on that dock. You were the only one who could do it and if you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have found Spencer. We wouldn’t be here right now. You’re my brother, Pete. No one could’ve helped me in the ways you have.” 

Spencer shifts closer and bumps Pete’s shoulder, lingering in his space when he doesn’t pull away. "I don't think anyone wants to be in Brendon's nightmare headspace anyway. That just kind of happened and there are days where I can't stand him. He never warned me about any of it." 

Brendon scoffs. “You think I control any of this or how we feel? I love you, Spence, I really do, but when my brain starts putting random shit into lists and _lists for those lists_, I want to bash my head against a wall. It's ridiculous.” 

There’s a beat before they’re chuckling in tandem, and Pete even cracks a smile. He’s pulled into a crushing hug, and he doesn’t know if he’s actually touch starved or Brendon is really clinging to him, but something finally settles in his stomach and the constant itch behind his eyes in Brendon’s presence dissolves. "Can you even believe where we are now?” Brendon asks, muffled by his mouth pressed against the denim of Pete’s jacket. “Can we just admit how fucking insane it's all been? You offered me a place to stay that night and told me some weird shit was going on, and now _we're_ the weird shit." Pete really doesn’t want to say that he’d do it all again. Fuck all of that. Spencer watches them fondly and when their eyes meet, Pete simply answers with a broken _ I know _. 

In the end, Pete got the walk he was promised. He’s pulled into step with them and the solid weight of Spencer’s arm on his shoulder grounds him in the moment. His heart feels light, lighter than it’s been since Chicago. Brendon is open, moving like water between them, and there are real, tangible pieces of the joy his brother used to radiate. Spencer could be aloof and downright unresponsive at times, but he was a soothing balm for both of them, easing Pete into a sense of calm that he didn’t know he’d craved. Spencer shows him the photo from Joe of the silver ingots Brendon had challenged him to send as soon as his phone chimed, but Pete is having a hard time getting his brain to shut up. He pauses and falls behind on the boardwalk. They both tilt their heads in tandem and Pete is still put off by that witchy dynamic they have, but there’s a barrier collapsing and he couldn’t prepare fast enough. Chewing his lip won’t stop the unfiltered words spilling out of his mouth. 

“We’re heading back east in a couple weeks. Um...I don’t know where you guys will be, or even if _I’ll_ be there for long. I’m not huge on texting and I won’t even attempt to figure out Facebook or Twitter. If your email address is still the same, Bren, I can say hello or you can send me weird stuff you guys find and maybe where you’re at.” His brows pinch, and it shouldn’t be _that_ hard to articulate for fuck’s sake. “I... I'd like to visit my brothers sometime, with their permission.” 

Pete feels like he’s shrinking under the look of incomprehension on Spencer’s face, but Brendon is fucking beaming, covering his mouth and stepping back and completely failing to muffle the shriek of joy with his hand. Something warm and inviting is pulling him closer and there’s a new pulse behind his eyes. It’s faint, but steady, anchoring. He’s going to force this out. It can’t sit still. “You're not just some guy, Spencer. I thought this was another game William was playing and hiding behind some kind of pawn, but you found Bren and he chose you. And maybe...this hyper-vigilance was really rotting my brain that I couldn't see past that.” Pete’s eyes burn and his fists clench in his pockets to keep himself from wiping at those phantom tears. “You're giving him the life and the peace he deserves and I'm grateful for that. And I could probably improve for his sake. Family doesn't give up.”

He forces himself to move because Spencer is still frozen and all Pete can do is bump his head against Spencer’s shoulder to scent him, and he isn’t being pushed away. This isn’t rejection. Spencer clutches the phone so hard that Pete thinks the screen will shatter in his grip as he’s pulled into a half-hug. It’s a first step, he assures himself when Spencer lingers and gives him an eager nod. He can let himself have these small luxuries of family and choose to be in their lives. They can work on it. He isn’t alone anymore. 

When they agree on the drunk surfers gathered around the bonfire to feed, Brendon holds back, holding Pete’s attention with a hand on his arm when Spencer tries and fails to get his camera lens to properly focus on the moon for a night shot. The haze over his eyes looks thicker, almost iridescent in the light of the fire, but they’re honest. "Thank you for giving us a chance. You didn't have to, but you did anyway. And this kind of life doesn't have to be _that_ terrible, right?" 

And Pete agrees. The crushing weight of this curse is bearable. His brothers pull him in with welcoming arms and he doesn’t feel cold. Maybe those joints are starting hit him now, or maybe the void in his chest is finally beginning to fill. He isn’t sure. 

Spencer doesn’t waste any time in going in for the bite, and his victim doesn’t fight, sinking into the sand with nothing but the crackling fire. Brendon watches proudly before he holds the gaze of his meal and invades their space to press them into the beach chair with a firm hand against their collar. Pete still hesitates, but his victim doesn’t fight and doesn’t melt against him the way they do for Brendon. Pete wipes at his chin as he finishes and meets Brendon’s amused eyes. He looks impressed, coming closer and wiping away a spot Pete missed with his sleeve. 

“Want to know the real trick?” Brendon offers. Pete nods. “Let yourself feel where you want them to be for a second. When your command is coming from a genuine place, it helps make it last.” 


	8. Eight

Malibu Canyon 

It started with a missed voicemail message. Then a dropped pin. 

Pete still wasn’t used to the concept of having a functioning phone with him on the regular, even a refurbished, almost obsolete model at Andy’s insistence, and with multiple assurances that he would not receive consistent calls or be traced by location services. Brendon was as close to off-grid as one could be if it weren’t for his attachment to the same email address he’s owned since he was 16. Joe, Andy, and Spencer were the only people he knew of that had his unlisted number. So, his first thought was who the fuck was this? More importantly, he was going to chuck the damn thing into the ocean before he leaves. 

Joe recognizes the number and convinces him to listen to it, and the first few garbled seconds had Pete convinced it was a butt-dial and ready to delete it, but he drops the phone against the desk when Brendon’s resounding growl rattles through the recording. It’s empty, inhuman, and Spencer’s strangled grunt before the audio cuts out has them scrambling for the phone again, looking up the coordinates of the pin. 

\- 

Brendon wasn’t there when Spencer woke at sundown. The usual mess of bed head he liked to run his fingers through was met with the cold linen sheet. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and frowned at the open bedroom door, and after a cautious walk-through to the den, he found Brendon at the back expanse of windows, steadily turning Pete’s ring in his palm as he looked out at the city lights. He doesn’t acknowledge Spencer’s presence, and it isn’t until his hand rests at the small of Brendon’s back that he finally notices Spencer. 

They shower and dress in silence, and Spencer tries not to be bothered by the way Brendon watches him, how his answers to Spencer’s casual questions are curt, distracted. Something itches, festering in Spencer’s brain, but he doesn’t want to push too hard, not when Brendon has finally found some semblance of peace. 

It’s Brendon’s turn to choose their feeding options tonight. Spencer lists a few places he mentioned in passing, scrolling through google reviews and settles on a winery in the canyon. Brendon watches him as he recites the closing hours, and for a moment, Spencer pauses, and how has he not noticed that look in Brendon’s eyes before? Spencer tilts his head curiously. The opaque haze has dissolved. 

“Bren?” Spencer waves a cautious hand in his line of sight. “B, are you good?” 

There’s a beat before Brendon leans back, and no matter how hard he blinks, the cold gaze is unwavering, and the smile Brendon wears is forced. It feels so wrong. When Spencer reaches for his hand, it’s met by a blank stare. Brendon feels hollow. 

Spencer hopes that a meal will help him come around. He shifts uncomfortably under Brendon’s piercing stare in the Uber, but he’s still. The car drops them at the mouth of a gravel road and monogrammed gate to the winery. Brendon lets himself out in a sort of daze, listing into Spencer’s side when he’s pulled into a half-hug. When he doesn’t reciprocate, Spencer folds his arms, scratching at his beard anxiously. “Listen, B.” he says, chewing his lip. “If it’s something I did, or if it’s something I can help fix, you just need to tell me. This thing with you and Pete is beyond me, and I won’t get between you two. If it’s all too much at once, or you need me to back off, I’ll understand. You just need to talk to me, Bren.” 

The silence settles around them until the soft crunch of leaves and gravel beneath their feet are left in their wake. 

Brendon grunts, folding his arms as he falls back. An amused grin teases at his lips, giving Spencer pause. “You still think he’s here, Spencer?” His confusion must be so hilarious as Brendon tilts his head and clicks his tongue, biting at his smile. He holds up the ring on his finger, shaking his head. “We thought your instincts would be a little sharper than this. Who do you think you’ve been talking to this whole time?” Spencer’s expression dissolves to abject horror, but Brendon continues to press, stalking closer now and collectedly folding his hands at his back. “Brendon put up a good fight for a long time, but again, his weakness for you, for Peter's gift, was enough to let his guard down. We've made sure he won't get in our way again.” 

Spencer has his hand poised at his pocket, fingers itching for the phone, but Brendon eyes him tauntingly. And it’s then that the throb of pain begins, pulsing behind his eyes with a building intensity that makes his vision swim. “Calling for backup? How long can you last before reinforcements arrive? Perhaps we should just start counting.” 

Spencer shouts for him, this desperate, broken sound just short of a sob. He’s still there. He knows he is. Brendon wouldn’t leave him. The demon wearing his face flashes his teeth in a pleased grin. “He can’t answer you. He stopped playing along months ago, but now he gets to watch. Are you going to be difficult as well?” His eyes dart back to the phone, now clutched in Spencer’s hand and unlocked, thumb poised on the last message thread and the vivid red of the call icon. Brendon would tell him to fight. 

He absolutely will, Spencer thinks, jaw set. 

He bolts, making a break for the highway as his thumb presses to dial, but there are claws tearing into his ankle, severing the tendon and he collapses to the gravel road. The call goes to voicemail as it slides over the dirt, and Spencer’s limbs scramble as he tries to reach for it, yanked back by the vise grip on his leg. His heel makes swift contact with Brendon’s nose with a resonant snap before he’s making another attempt for the phone. The screen is cracked, and he isn’t sure he’s even at the right page, hands shaking with adrenaline. 

Brendon tackles him before he’s even sure the pin was sent with a feral growl, ripping from his throat. He drives his shoe against Spencer’s temple before he finally goes still, eyes rolling back. Brendon inspects the damage, letting out a resigned sigh when he wipes the blood from his lip, resetting his nose. 

\- 

The transmission screams as Joe shifts into another gear, weaving through the stray cars on Coral Canyon, the clutch pressing against the floor as often as the gas pedal. Pete’s fingers drum on the dash, eyeing the pin on the GPS drawing closer and closer to their pathetic blue arrow. His veins are screaming for his brother again, a knot twisting in his gut that told him to _fight protect run_. 

A Martha Reeves song crackles through the speakers, fighting through the spotty reception in the narrow hills. The arrow travels closer to the pin and Pete has the window rolled down now, taking in the scents to search for the two he needs the most, ears straining. His patience is wearing thin, anxiety taking over. “Turn the fucking radio off!” he snaps, leaning closer to the window to focus and tune out the roar of the engine. Joe switches it off, gliding around another curve, and though faint, drifting on the wind, Pete recognizes the scream as Spencer’s. His fingers press into the door frame. 

The fog rolls in thicker from the beach, diluting the scents in the air and Pete snarls, sinking back into the seat. The blue arrow closes in on the pin now, but Pete can’t hear anything, can’t feel the pull behind his eyes. He leans closer against the dash, peering through the fog. 

“It was Spencer. I know it was. He should be here.” Pete growls. Joe takes another turn a little too sharply, shifting gears. 

Andy braces himself in the back seat, tugging on his seat belt for purchase. “He could’ve been separated from his phone? Maybe he sent the pin by mistake?” Pete’s head snaps back to Andy. His brows are furrowed and eyes wild with the hunt because Pete wasn’t alone in the room with that voicemail. It’s not just Pete’s instincts that tell him what that screech meant. Spencer sent it to _him_ in particular. There was a struggle. His brother needed him. 

Joe takes another turn on the highway, but his brain miscalculates and jerks the wheel to swerve when a Brendon-shaped figure is illuminated by the headlights in the center of the road, throwing him a sharp grin in the light of the high beams. The tires scream against the asphalt, and Pete’s first move is to brace his arm against Joe to cage him against the seat before the car lists and rolls with a sickening crunch of metal and glass. Pete is ejected into the darkness, landing with resounding crack against a tree. The car tumbles a few more yards before lurching to a stop on its side, leaving a trail of mangled aluminum, rubber, and glass in its wake. Phil Collins croons as the radio fights for life, echoing into the fog.

_So you can wipe off that grin, I know where you've been. It's all been a pack of lies._

\- 

The hand in Spencer’s hair tugs painfully, exposing his throat and for a brief moment, the fingernails break the skin, piercing as he reaches back to throw Brendon off of him and makes a break for the wreckage of the car. Spencer fed on his primal instinct to flee, to just get to Pete and have support in restraining Brendon until he comes to, but it feels like a void, and a primal force of nature has occupied Brendon’s hollow shell. His maker is faster, digging his nails deep into Spencer’s spine as he screams for Pete until his knees give out, and drags him to the road’s shoulder. Spencer’s arms tremble as he struggles to stand, fingers digging into the gravel to fight that pull. Brendon’s velvet voice is poison in his ear, hand secured at Spencer’s neck as if he really needed to drive the point of who the alpha really was all along. “He’s begging, Spencer. He’s pleading for you, all alone in here.” And he’s shaking his head fervently, trying to look away but Brendon’s grip is firm, keeping his head level. His nose brushes against Spencer’s temple, scenting him and it feels so fucking wrong. Spencer isn’t weak. Brendon made that clear at every opportunity. Spencer was not weak, until it’s his voice in Spencer’s ear. “You should really stop fighting us. Don’t leave him alone.” 

Spencer crumbles, sinking into the dirt and lets his head fall. Brendon can’t be alone again, and Brendon reminded him time and time again that he was better than this. He wasn’t an animal. Spencer grits his teeth, and as much as it kills him, he knows this isn’t his mate. Brendon was never cruel. 

Spencer jerks away, spitting in his face with a feral hiss. Brendon isn’t deterred. His jaw sets as he glares at Spencer, letting out a breath and his nostrils flare, lips a tight line. “We’re doing this the hard way. So be it.” Brendon tackles him, pinning him into the dirt with a hand on his wrists and the other on his jaw, holding his head in place despite Spencer’s violent protests and screams. It earns Spencer a snarl, and the cold, empty void of Brendon’s gaze is fixed on him. “Look at us.” Brendon’s voice is terse, another simmering beneath it as the command repeats. Spencer still struggles, but he can’t focus as the words echo in his ears, droning over and over. He can’t stop looking at Brendon. He leans closer now as Spencer’s eyes follow him, holding that contact as his voice grates against the other in tandem, demonic. _“Let us in.”_

Spencer blacks out and his limbs go slack. 

Joe’s eyes widen as he watched, ducking back down quickly and pulls pieces of glass from his forehead. “Fuck!” he hisses. “We’re fucked. We’re so fucking screwed!” Andy’s nostrils flair, panting as he fights to unbuckle the seat belt, forgoing his efforts to just reach for the knife in his briefs and slice through the polyester webbing in the back seat. He wipes the pea-sized pieces of glass from his brow and thanks his past self for choosing today of all days to wear his contacts. He finally gets his hands on the blade and works to cut himself free, leaning up to peek over the rim of the door to see Spencer push himself up from the dirt like he was guided by a string, stumbling slightly. 

“Spencer looks out of it.” Andy observes, working the knife furiously until the belt snaps free. “Where’s Brendon?” 

“Probably doing some more diabolical shit.” Joe snarls, spitting a mouthful of blood from his split lip. “He’s done something to Spence. I should’ve just hit the little bastard. Screw the car.” He pats around his chest, checking that the vital organs are still intact and not spilling into his lap and the seat. “Pete’s probably dead.” 

“Doubt it.” Andy mumbles. “Unless his head was ripped clean off upon ejection, he’s not _DEAD_ dead.” 

Joe spits another mouthful of blood, popping his shoulder back in place with a grunt and leans over to inspect the glove box for damage. “That’s what he gets for never wearing a seatbelt.” The latch gives on the first try and the wrapped 9mm pistol falls onto the seat. The magazines follow as he feels around for anything else that wasn’t destroyed in the wreck. He keeps the dented flask close. He’d feel more secure if he had just stolen his lighter back from Pete earlier that night, but the flask of holy water will have to do. “How are we looking back there?” 

“There could be two or three of you. I can’t continue my lectures if I neglect this possible concussion.” Andy’s fingers come back covered in blood when he delicately touches at the gash on his temple. 

Joe grunts as he checks the magazine before loading the pistol. “What a fucking shame for your students.” He leans up again and the next glimpse at the road is met with Brendon’s cold, amused smirk. Spencer’s eyes follow his focus and turns to advance on the wreckage before Joe can duck again. His heart pounds in his chest as Spencer’s feet land on the body of the car, and the passenger door is ripped from the hinges before Joe can pull Andy to the front seat. 

Andy braces himself against the door behind him and clutches the knife, breath coming out quick through his nose. Spencer gazes down with an almost glassy, vacant stare, sharp brows furrowed. Blood stains the collar of his shirt and fingernails. “This will be quick if you don’t struggle.” he drones, voice hollow, setting his jaw before he leans down to reach for Andy’s boot. 

Andy kicks his hand away, hearing the safety click from Joe’s pistol. Spencer reaches again with a firmer grip on his ankle, but Andy’s arm darts out, slicing a gash across Spencer’s cheek. The blood pools and drips from the wound, and Andy is sure it should burn like hell from the silver, but Spencer simply blinks, and his hands are reaching back for Andy’s legs, shifting his weight to haul him from the wreckage. Andy growls as he tries to resist, clawing at the leather seat for purchase, but he’s dragged to the pavement. He squirms, limbs wild as he tries to kick and stab. His knife drags across Spencer’s arms to no avail as Spencer advances to pin him. Andy finds an opening when his boot makes contact with the wound on Spencer’s cheek, earning him a few precious seconds to scramble to his feet before Spencer advances again. 

Andy’s moves are quick, blade poised to find a break in Spencer’s guard as he dodges and ducks through Andy’s arms. He aims for the chest, hates that he needs to lodge the knife through Spencer's sternum but knows he can handle the paralysis until they can get through to him. But Spencer is swiping for the throat, moving in for the kill as the blood continues to drip from his wounds. 

“Spence, you need to wake up!” Andy pants, ducking under a swipe of Spencer’s arm. 

“Spencer wouldn’t need it fucking spelled out for him like that! He understands a _fuck you_ the first time!” Joe blows out a piercing whistle before he chucks the flask. Andy manages to catch it, the water spilling over his hands, but he tosses the liquid in a wide circle to create some distance. It hisses and splits the skin over Spencer’s forehead and arms, searing into the flesh, and he pauses for a moment, processing Andy’s new tactics. Andy braces himself against the wreckage, and the respite has his muscles screaming, bracing his hands against his knees, panting with frantic breaths. Spencer’s head is tilted, watching the acid burns of holy water on his arms blister and spread before he’s locking eyes with Andy from under his brows. 

_Fuck._

Spencer bares his teeth with a snarl before he’s on all fours, lunging at Andy and driving his shoulder against the metal to pin him with the momentum. The breath is forced out of Andy’s lungs with a strangled gasp and Spencer’s hand grips his jacket collar, dragging him down to the asphalt. Andy’s feet are kicking him away again as his jacket rips from his arms. A scream bursts from Andy’s throat when Spencer’s nails catch the calf of his leg, digging into the flesh and raking down to the muscle, blood spilling from the wound and soaking his jeans. Andy’s vision whites out from the pain and can’t process Spencer’s nails tearing deeper into the meat. 

Shots ring out and Spencer falls back with the impact of the bullets. Joe’s hands are steady as he empties the magazine and pauses to reload the other. He jumps from the car to get to Andy and compress the wound on his leg to stave off the blood loss. Confusion spreads over Spencer’s features as he touches at the wounds, licking the blood that’s pooled over his fingers, but he looks up at Joe with those glassy, vacant eyes. He rushes at Joe but is too far gone with hunger and Brendon’s voice echoing in his ears to feel the searing pain of the silver. 

_Feed. They are nothing_, it says. 

Spencer's on him then, squirming under him and crushing the open wound on Andy’s leg in the struggle until Spencer sinks his teeth into the meat of Joe’s shoulder, dragging when Joe flinches and latches onto another spot, clinging to Joe’s back like a parasite and groaning at the taste. Joe’s fingers search through the sea of glass for the knife at Andy’s side. Pain shoots through his arms at every movement, but he needs to get free. He falls back on Spencer to try and crush him with his weight, and for a moment, Spencer recoils at the impact. 

Brendon checks the road for any headlights, approaching the wreck after scanning the ditch for signs of movement. Joe spots him, the fog coiling in his wake, and he hates the ease in Brendon’s step. He hurls the knife by the blade without thinking, aimed at Brendon’s heart. It’s caught in Brendon’s palm instead to block its path, searing the flesh on contact, but Brendon is unimpressed as he pries it from his hand. His grin makes Joe’s stomach turn when he licks the trail of blood from his wrist to his palm, tossing the knife into the brush. With a flick of his hand, Spencer retreats, rolling his shoulders. 

“Isn’t it funny how it feels like we’ve been here before? It’s a shame if that’s all you’ve brought to play with this time around.” He examines the punctures dotting Spencer’s chest and stains his shirt. When he brings his hand up to Spencer’s cheek, pressing a finger against the gash. Spencer’s eyes remain fixed on Andy’s leg as Joe applies pressure, glaring back at them. “We won’t care if these heal or not after Spencer’s finished with you. Resilient and compliant.” Brendon drawls, making a pleased hum. 

“Paralian!” Pete shouts, limping up from the ditch as the fracture in his hip fights to heal. The gashes across his face an arms knit together, blood staining his hair and shirt. His voice strains as he starts to scream. “Paralian!” 

Brendon pauses, rolling his eyes. Spencer glances at the road, but the subtle movement of Joe pressing his hands against Andy’s leg has Spencer’s head snapping to attention. Pete stumbles closer and shouts again. Brendon tilts his head with a scowl. “It was cute the first time and now it’s annoying. We’ve put a stop to that.” 

Pete’s eyes travel over the wreckage: the blood soaking Joe’s shirt, Andy’s leg, Spencer’s twitching fingers, and the smug grin on Brendon’s face. He sees red, rage spilling over with an inhuman roar as he lunges for Brendon, fangs bared. His muscles strain but the rage is palpable, flooding his veins to put Brendon down. He’s swift, ducking and dodging around Pete’s rabid punches like water. Pete fakes before driving his knee into Brendon’s chest, only to be caught by his ankle and thrown into the fog down the road. Pete skids, but Brendon is on him again, cackling at Pete’s efforts. Pete lets out another growl before his hand grips Brendon’s hair, the other on his throat. Brendon’s nails press into Pete’s arms, slicing through the skin as he laughs. 

“You can’t leave him alone!” Pete snarls. “Nothing will ever be enough for you!” 

Brendon cackles, but his dead eyes make Pete’s skin crawl. “Oh, Peter. Brendon lead us here...and Spencer will do anything for him.” Pete flexes the hand around his throat, limbs trembling with fury. Brendon’s foot finds purchase and drives against Pete’s shin, shattering on contact and Pete falls to his knees. Brendon shifts his weight on Pete’s back, pressing his knee against Pete’s spine and holding his head against the asphalt. “Los Angeles will prove promising for what we have planned. You’re the last thread to be cut.” 

“You’re a fucking coward.” Pete grits, baring his teeth. “Possessing Brendon was the only way you could beat us.” 

Brendon’s fingers tug at the strands of Pete’s hair, blood pooling from his scalp. “You could never really hurt him, could you, Peter? This vessel of his is buried so deep under your skin. We didn’t get this far by playing by the rules.” 

Andy’s scream rings through the darkness as Spencer snaps his femur under his foot, a firm hand securing Joe by the hair. His voice breaks with exhaustion and the blood loss is beginning to take its toll on him as his vision swims. “Wake up, Spence.” he pants, fighting to stay conscious as Spencer pauses once he exposes Joe’s throat. “Don’t give up on us... We need you... Brendon needs you.” 

Brendon pins Pete securely, pulling his arm back to dislocate. “You’ve always been in the way, Peter. You’ve had all this time and you’ve learned nothing. We get what we want in the end. Always.” He tugs a little harder, hearing the squelching pop as Pete’s arm comes free of the socket, earning him a guttural growl. Brendon turns him over to straddle his waist and tilts Pete’s head up by the hand in his hair. Pete stares up at him, pleading. The husk grins back down at him, nails poised for his throat. “We’ll make it quick this time. No more silly words.” 

He was never meant to have nice things. 

The searing pain of Brendon’s nails cut so deep, but only for a moment before screeches pierce through the drone of the crickets and crash of the waves on the beach. The weight is lifted from his chest and for a moment, Pete can’t process that he’s free. Brendon claws and rips at Spencer’s arms secured around his neck, limbs flailing to break free, but Spencer persists, tightening his hold. Pete scrambles away, but Spencer doesn’t move, doesn’t tear his eyes from Pete even as his muscles strain with the effort. “This was the risk.” Spencer says, voice wavering, wincing when Brendon sinks his teeth into his arm, but stands firm. “Both of us. Leave nothing behind.” There’s pain in his eyes, flickering through the empty space and he nods. Pete takes a wary step back, not only to avoid the swipe of Brendon’s legs, but he doesn’t have the strength to do what Spencer is asking. His shoes slide through the dirt as Brendon is snarling now, barking strangled commands and Spencer narrows his focus on Pete to resist. He growls when Brendon manages to get an arm up to claw across his jaw. “Pete, do this for us...please.” Spencer pleads, knees buckling beneath him, trying to adjust his hold around Brendon’s neck. 

Pete’s limbs scream in protest, fighting to heal as he scans the shoulder for anything sturdy enough to hold them. His eyes fall on the sharp outline of an oak branch, hanging by a feeble limb from the trunk, dead and brittle. He swallows thickly as he rips it free, forcing himself to look back and approach them. Spencer kneels in the gravel, whispering into Brendon’s ear, face pinched in agony as his arms heal, only to be slashed again. He begs, he pleads, but murder has now filled Brendon’s eyes. Pete tries to read his lips, and all of the _I love you_s, promises of freedom and peace, fall on deaf ears. Brendon screeches again at the sight of Pete and the thick branch in his hand, dragging through the rock and deadfall. His eyes are daring him, burning a hole in Pete’s forehead with hate, but Spencer’s resigned, nodding. 

“I don’t know...if I can hold on...much longer,” Spencer forces. He leans back for the angle as Pete lifts the branch, pain washing over his eyes, but not from his wounds. 

Pete swallows thickly, lip trembling. “W-We can find a way. There’s always a way, Spence.” 

He just rebuilt his family. He can keep working. He can save them. 

“It won’t let us go.” 

Spencer’s arms spread across Brendon’s chest to give Pete the opening he needs. 

Brendon sneers. “Third time’s the charm, isn’t it, Peter?” And he’s right as Pete hesitates when he lifts the branch. “We didn’t choose the weak link, and that’s all you’ll ever be: weak!” 

Spencer watches him, his blue eyes piercing through the stains of blood and exhausted shadows under his brows. His nose brushes against Brendon’s temple, and his hold on his maker is almost affectionate if it weren’t for the erratic spasms of Brendon’s limbs reaching out to rip and maim. The gesture is intimate, and then Brendon isn’t clawing anymore. He goes still, melting at Spencer’s words, and there’s recognition in his eyes, taking in the path of wreckage. When he finally looks at Pete, there’s a light, so small, but it pleads, and Brendon’s voice is clear. 

“Please,” he begs. “Pete, please.” 

The warmth in his voice sends shivers up Pete’s spine, but then Brendon’s eyes grow cold, and Spencer’s nod cements his resolve. Brendon’s throat rattles with screeches again, seething through his teeth. Pete’s muscles remember the movement, so fluid and swift. There’s only a small ounce of resistance as the branch pierces through skin and muscle, joining them together. Spencer’s arms are still secured around Brendon’s shoulders, pain cemented on his face, but they’re still, watching Pete. 

He wants to pull it out. He wants to take them away, protect them from themselves, but the light is still out in Brendon’s eyes. Spencer’s words echo through his brain, to leave nothing behind. The lighter is heavy in his pocket and he feels like it would set him ablaze too, but he promised, and Andy’s blood is sharp in his nose, too fresh. 

Pete grunts as he tugs them down the road, the branch dragging across the asphalt to the beach. He finds it easier to slide once he reaches the sand and hopes the shore would be convenient enough to douse them if he really is as weak as William had accused. They watch the sky now, and Pete’s eyes burn, forcing back a sob. 

They deserved more. They had more to give. He needed more. 

But he’ll give them this kindness, and hope that the last of Beckett burns with them. It takes several attempts to get his fingers to still before he can finally flick the lighter, and the blaze grows quickly when the flame catches on Spencer’s shirt. He expects more, some resistance, another fight, but they burn in silence, engulfed in the flames that grow higher against the rocks. 

Andy needs him, needs legitimate medical attention because Pete knows he’d absolutely refuse the bite and Pete doesn’t think he has it in him to turn anyone to begin with. But he promised. He’ll see it through to the end. 

When the wood splinters and the bones collapse, smoldering, Pete is quick to bury what little is left. He’s grateful for the breeze, dispersing the ashes inland and blanketing the stench of charred flesh. 

He thinks this is the view Brendon would’ve wanted, in another lifetime. His gaze lingers on the patch of displaced sand, hoping he’d dug deep enough, that it was good enough for them. The distant sirens finally pull him away, stealing another glance at the beach before disappearing back into the fog. 


	9. Nine

Pete had circled back to the stretch of highway the following night, retracing their steps for some final bits of closure. Brendon and Spencer’s scents of cedar and bergamot still lingered under the stench of charred flesh, and Pete must’ve been several degrees of insane for chasing them, as if their ghosts lingered and he could just bottle and lock them away. He finds the phone forgotten in the gravel on the way back to the rental car. The screen was shattered almost beyond recognition, but there seemed to be no signs of further damage. Joe gives it a once over, even prying it apart to confirm that the memory card was salvageable. When they get past the passcode, raw data floods in, and Pete doesn’t hesitate to write down the most recent address pulled from the location cache. 

The neighborhood was quiet, the gate locked and security bushes towering over him when he confirmed the number on the mailbox and forgotten trash bins at the curb. The place was pristine and manicured, almost impersonal in its precision, but once he’d gotten the door open, the scents of them hit him square in the chest and the warmth they exuded had his eyes burning at the corners. He’d flicked lights on as he explored deeper through the entryway and hall, nearly tripping on a pair of Brendon’s discarded shoes. As if they’d only stepped out for an errand, their personal effects were littered around the place in small souvenirs, ironed shirts draped over a chair, half-filled journals, and scribbled notes on stationery. Their scents were thick in the master and bathroom, and as Pete sat at the end of the unmade bed, he took the manila folder from the side table, running his fingers over the copy of a deed and a purchaser agreement. He let his eyes travel over the empty suitcases stashed in the closet, the toothbrushes and soaps in the bathroom. 

_ They’d planned to stay. _ Pete wonders if he would have ever had the privilege of being invited. 

He only takes the laptop on his way out, turning the lights off as a courtesy. He would return. 

Joe had finished extracting the phone’s data by the time Pete had returned to their hotel room, giving him the laptop to crack in exchange as he went through the files. 

The texts were sparse, with small mentions of locations the times they were briefly separated during outings. The deeper he read, he concluded that the number he didn’t recognize was Brendon’s. A few of the messages were Spencer’s reminders to himself. Installed apps were mostly utilitarian, save for the hundreds of lost and forfeited games of Words with Friends against Brendon’s account. Pete smirks fondly. 

When he opens the photo app, his face falls. Hundreds of photos and videos took up most of the memory, dating back years, chronicling their journey together. Videos of Brendon being chased down a desert trail and his laugh piercing through the crunch of earth under their feet, recordings of mundane conversations, quick candids of them lounging in hotels, lofts, and cafes, and the recent echo of Brendon’s singing and harmonizing to Celine Dion in the den. The photos seem endless. The vulnerability expressed in them had Pete clutching the phone protectively. Landscapes, stills, and abstract angles of travel weave between the intimate photos of Brendon’s drowsy smile peeking out from under a sheet, looking away from the lens, or the glow of the phone in his hand, and the predatory aftermath of a meal. For a few, Brendon had taken the phone, and Spencer couldn’t hold his glare for long in a few shutter bursts and selfies. Pete stops at a couple toward the bottom of the album. Brendon almost looks frail as he stares back at this camera with a mask of confusion and annoyance, but the shadows beneath his eyes couldn’t hide the telltale crease of amusement. The selfie that preceded it had Pete glued, almost gawking. The sweatshirt that hung on Brendon’s thin frame was likely the spare from Spencer’s closet, lips cracked and pale, but his smile was blinding, reclined beside Spencer as the phone was held up above them. Spencer’s skin had a slight tan, a blush on his neck, and his teeth blunt. Clear, blue eyes were watching Brendon, creasing slightly at the corners as he laughs. Brendon’s brown irises are fixed on the lens. The love in the still frame is reaching out to Pete, and he can’t help but smile back. 

Pete frames and hangs it, along with several others from the file, on a gallery in the hall of the LA house. Others join them as the decades pass, many more join the padlocked trunk in the master closet. His authority over Joe’s business that spanned throughout the heartland and the west coast is absolute since he was cremated, and he keeps tabs on Andy’s former students, donating grants to their research. The neighboring plots to the house have been bought up and put into a private trust, renovated and rented out as he sees fit. 

His brothers watch him from their custom frames as he passes every evening to slip into his shoes and snatch his keys from the bowl. He sees Spencer as he feeds, always reminding him that he doesn’t have to make it hurt for the unfortunate meal. He hears Joe and Andy bickering in the back seat of the Pontiac, screaming at him not to use the emergency brake as he skids through the canyon. He feels Patrick lean against his shoulder and Brendon’s anchoring hand on his knee as he sits back against his usual rock, digging his toes into the sand. 

And then, as he takes another deep breath of mist and salt, there’s nothing but the roll and crash of the waves. It's only his own voice in his head now. The chill of the sea breeze licks at his skin. He wonders if this is what he has to look forward to, and that wherever his brothers are, they can feel the same semblance of peace, and that they’re proud of him. 

He thinks he can finally be okay.


End file.
